


Because I Need You

by SubverbalDreams



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, ConcernedLovingAndFallingForHisSon!Tony, FANFICCEPTION, Father/Son Incest, Forced Daddy Kink, Gaslighting, Incest, M/M, Mindbreak, Physical Abuse, Rape, SleazyGaslightingBastard!Beck, Starker, Statutory Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator, fanfic of Along Came Mr. Beck by Ru17, spiderio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2020-09-18 23:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubverbalDreams/pseuds/SubverbalDreams
Summary: Mr. Beck wants to replace Tony Stark in his son’s mind and heart.He doesn’t expect Tony to replacehim.***Inspired by “Along Came Mr. Beck” by Ru17; this is an AU in which Peter begins to hallucinate that his captor, Beck, is actually Tony Stark. When his father finally rescues him, his relationship with Peter changes in a way that can’t be undone.





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Along came Mr. Beck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19814059) by [ru17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ru17/pseuds/ru17). 

> The working title of this story in my documents is “Ru made me do this.” And that pretty much sums it up. 
> 
> The summary of this story (and its inception) is [from this conversation on tumblr](http://subverbaldreams.tumblr.com/post/187066011344). As well as many offline convos not fit for human consumption.

_It’s gonna be okay. _

_ Petey. Hey, kiddo. It’s gonna be okay. _

“Do you hear me? Pete?”

_ Mr. Beck, _Peter thinks. His teacher is here. But it feels like he’s in a bed. And he hurts, he hurts so bad—

“It’s gonna be okay,” Mr. Beck says, stroking Peter’s cheek as if to calm him.

_ “No,” _ Peter moans. He shrinks back from that hand, but a second one just takes hold of his other cheek to keep his head still.

“Shh, shh shh shh, it’s alright, Peter. You spaced out on me, for a second.”

Peter blinks, trying to clear the fog out of his eyes. He hurts so, so bad...and now he remembers why.

He hadn’t _ spaced _ out. He’d _ passed _ out, while Mr. Beck was whipping him with his belt.

His heart does a sick tumble inside his chest. Mr. Beck had been so stern with him, earlier, but he’s being sweet now and though it makes Peter sick, he still prefers this to being beaten. 

“Do you need some water?” Mr. Beck asks, face full of concern.

_ “Yuh,” _ Peter whimpers.

Mr. Beck’s eyelids lower; his mouth stretches in a pleased smile. 

“That’s my good boy. Do you need me to tie you down, while I go to the kitchen? Or can you be good?”

His hands are low on Peter’s jaw, almost wrapped around his neck. Deliberate or not, the threat is loud and clear. 

_ “I can be good,” _ Peter breathes. 

Besides. He doesn’t think he could walk if he tried.

“Good boy,” Mr. Beck says again. It’s soothing, the way he says it. Shouldn’t be, but it is. “I’ll be right back.”

The man’s weight lifts from on top of him. His hands leave Peter’s skin, leave him with nothing but the bedsheets and the pain. It hadn’t hurt so much, when Mr. Beck was touching him. Now, the pain is everything. A throb that beats through his entire body.

Peter stares at the ceiling while he’s alone, and maybe this time he does space out a bit. The spackle does a little ten-degree rotation every few seconds, clockwise and counterclockwise, like an old rotary telephone. It makes him feel seasick.

The bed dips beside him, and Mr. Beck lifts him up, positions him so that he’s cradled under one of the man’s thick arms. He tilts Peter’s chin up, lifts the water glass until the rim touches his lips.

“Here you go, son. Drink up.”

_ Son. _

That’s all it takes to bring back the tears.

Peter drinks while he cries. As long as he’s drinking the water, then nothing else is happening. Mr. Beck is being nice to him and he doesn’t have to do anything—to _ say _ anything—that’ll make him feel worse than he already does. 

Stupid of him to think Mr. Beck, who had stalked him all through his sophomore year, wouldn’t notice that he’s barely sipping the water anymore. Peter reaches desperately for the glass as Mr. Beck pulls it away, but a glance upward has him curling his hand back into his own chest. 

That look is back. The stern teacher, ready to discipline his student. Peter’s stomach does a queasy shudder. The lashed backs of his legs throb like ice and fire.

“Peter,” Mr. Beck says, his voice as earnest as it’s ever been. “I know this is hard for you. I know you don’t want to believe Tony Stark would abandon you like this. You shouldn’t _ have _to believe it.” His gray eyes darken with something dangerous. Peter shrinks away, but Mr. Beck’s arm holds him tightly in place. 

“It’s _ wrong.” _

He strokes Peter’s cheek, shifts until they’re side by side, then rolls half of his weight on top of Peter. His caress moves lower, hand curved over Peter’s throat to feel the pulse hammering against his palm. 

“But I’ll never abandon you. I’ll raise you up right, Pete.”

Peter catches the _ “No!” _ before it comes out of his mouth. But his breaths come shallow and fast, a denial any sane person should be able to hear.

Mr. Beck lowers heavy on top of him and takes his mouth in a scratchy kiss.

“I’ll discipline you the way you need,” he murmurs. He grinds his hips as he says it, and Peter is sickened to feel the hard bar of Mr. Beck’s erection rubbing against him.

“Hurts,” Peter gasps. “Please, I’m so sore, Mr. Beck—”

Before he can get out another word, Mr. Beck jerks Peter up and shoves him down so that he’s sprawled face down over the man’s lap.

Mr. Beck’s hand crashes down on the spot where Peter’s ass and thigh meet, a blow that bursts the air in the room like a thunderclap. Peter screams, tries to lurch forward, but Mr. Beck pins him down. He circles the spot he just hit, and the soft touch is almost as painful as the blow. Something wet trickles down the back of Peter’s thigh.

“I’ve told you twice already not to call me that,” Mr. Beck explains. “Haven’t I, son?”

His hand goes still on Peter’s ass. Funny how just the lack of motion could become a threat, because Peter’s blood runs cold.

“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, sir! I’m sorry!”

The circling motion starts again, and Peter is so relieved that tears spring out of his eyes. Mr. Beck’s heavy forearm pushes his back down and Peter sobs into the comforter, relieved and terrified at the same time.

“Shhh, shh baby. I know. I know it’s hard.” Those light circles trace along the ridges Mr. Beck has whipped into Peter’s ass. His fingers slip between Peter’s ass cheek, and the circles are on his rim, now. Mr. Beck spits into his hand and rubs it into Peter’s crack so that every glide of his thick fingers is easy and slick.

It feels...it’s incredible. It shouldn’t be; there’s no reason it should be. Peter’s entire backside from ass to knees feels like the skin has been torn off in strips. It throbs so bad, the pounding of blood in his ears almost blocks out the sound in the room.

But that firm, slippery touch on his hole feels amazing.

Peter’s whole body shakes with the sobs coming out of him. Mr. Beck’s forearm shoves down on his back until he has trouble breathing, while his other hand works Peter’s balls and hole, tugging and pressing, dipping into him as if to test his resistance. How can it feel so good when he hurts so much? 

_ “Don’...I don’ want it,” _Peter whimpers, his voice almost a mewl. Pathetic. 

“Peter,” Mr. Beck sighs, “what are we gonna do about these lies? Why do you keep lying to me? Hmm?”

He flips Peter back over as though he’s just a puppy, something small and easy to control. Mr. Beck pushes him back into the pillows and knees between his legs even as Peter tries to pull them closed.

_ “No...no...no…” _ Peter’s breaths hitch, one over the other. 

Mr. Beck grips his hair and pulls his head up so that Peter is looking down his body. His own erection lifts from his belly as though straining toward Mr. Beck’s hard cock still trapped in his pants. 

“Ohh,” Mr. Beck coos. “Look at that.” He strokes the back of his finger along the underside of Peter’s cock. It jumps beneath his touch, and Peter gasps. Mr. Beck rolls his lower lip through his teeth as he looks up at Peter, eyes dark with hunger. “That’s beautiful, Peter. You get so hard and pretty for me.”

He spits on his fingertips and runs them once around the head of Peter’s cock (a dark smile when Peter’s hips lift into the touch) then down between his ass cheeks and the tip of his finger breaches Peter’s tight rim.

_ “Ahh! Ow,” _ Peter whimpers, though honestly the scrub of Mr. Beck’s pants against his thighs hurts more than the penetration.

“Shh, it’s okay, son. You can take it. You’re so good at spreading open for me.”

Sickness rises in Peter’s throat at the praise. 

_ “Please...lube, please,” _ Peter whines, hating how thin and weak his voice sounds.

He can’t stop it. Mr. Beck has shown him already, over and over, that nothing Peter does can stop this from happening. The only thing he can affect is how much it hurts.

And Mr. Beck likes it when he begs.

The older man’s expression softens, hunger and something like affection melted together on his horrible, perfect face. A gentle smile dimples his cheeks.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to tear my boy.”

Fresh rage chokes up Peter’s chest as if his stomach is trying to surge up his throat. He shivers in place while Mr. Beck crawls halfway off him to reach into the little cart he keeps beside the bed.

There’s no thought. No plan. Peter just rolls off the bed, on the opposite side from Mr. Beck. He crashes into the wall, careens off of it and lurches for the bedroom door. Mr. Beck must have been caught by surprise, because Peter feels slow like he’s running through water, but Mr. Beck doesn’t chase him. Peter makes it to the door. He’s_ made it! _

The knob spins in his hand.

Peter turns it the other way, but it’s the same. It spins like it’s not connected to anything.

_No. No. NonononNONONO— _

He grips the handle as if it’s the only thing holding him up. Turns around. 

His legs are already shaking like wet noodles, but the look on Mr. Beck’s face nearly brings him to his knees. 

He’s sitting on the bed, one bare foot on the floor and the other leg bent in front of him. His hand rests over the buckle of his belt and his mouth is drawn in a grim line.

“Peter,” he says, voice abnormally calm. “Come here.”

There’s no choice.

That’s what Peter tells himself. No choice as he walks back to Mr. Beck, the same way he’d walked back to his father when he was ten, when he’d been caught with cigarettes. He hadn’t even tried them, just found them on a ledge outside the tower and he’d been curious. But his father had busted his ass for it, spanked him and grounded him for a month.

It isn’t the sort of thing he wants to remember as he wobbles back to the bed, hands cupped to cover his softening cock. Mr. Beck doesn’t move, just watches until Peter stands right in front of him. His forehead is lined with a look of concern. He doesn’t even seem angry.

“Why did you do that?”

Peter shoots a glance at him, then goes back to looking at the bedsheets. He tries not to let his eyes wander to the overbuilt steel frame. Tries not to think about the metal enclosures built into the foot of the bed: a perfect ring for each wrist and the neck in the middle. Medieval stocks with a modern matte finish.

He tries not to touch the spot on his chin that’s still bruised from trying to jerk his head out of the stocks while Mr. Beck raped him, last night.

Tries not to think of it happening again, right now.

“Peter. Look at me.”

Peter jumps and looks up. He’s successfully scared himself so much more than he already was, he feels like he’s going to faint.

“Why did you just do that?”

It sounds just like his father, and Peter’s crying, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. He hates crying, but that doesn’t seem to stop it. He’s been doing it a lot lately.

_“Don’t know,” _ he mumbles.

“Do you _ want _ me to punish you?” Mr. Beck’s eyebrows draw together. The picture of concern. “Do you get off on it? Am I getting warm, here?”

Peter shakes his head. Then nods. He doesn’t quite know what question he’s answering.

Mr. Beck leans forward to look up at him. “Did you even _ think _ about what would happen to you if you made it out from here? One: there’s nothing for miles except trees and wild animals. You’d starve to death before you got anywhere. But let’s say that wasn’t the case. Let’s say you did find someone. What would you do if some trucker picked you up, naked like this? Do you think you could stop him? You’d be tied down in the back of his sleeper cab before you can say ‘sloppy seconds.’”

His words hit like a hail of hot coals. When he reaches out to grasp Peter’s shoulders, Peter sags into his grip. He just needs someone to hold him up. It feels like the world is falling out from underneath him.

“Now, Peter. You know I want to be with you. I do. But when you _ manipulate _ me? Asking me to get lube so that we can make love, only for you to run like that? How do you think that makes me feel?”

Peter reaches forward to catch himself, puts his hands on Mr. Beck’s shoulders. He knows the man will press until he gets an answer, so he gives it.

_“Bad,” _ he whispers.

“Yes,” Mr. Beck agrees. “I’ve risked everything for you, Pete. To save you. To _ help _ you. I’m the father you never _ had.” _

Peter had thought there was no more fight left in him, but the insult to his father sends fire surging through his veins.

“You’re not my dad.” The words aren’t nearly as forceful as they should have been. He says it like he's open to Mr. Beck proving him wrong.

He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Who kept you company when you had no one else to lean on? Who helped you pass your course, when that idiot broke your final project? I’ve _ always _ had time for you, Peter. _ Always. _ Has there ever once been a time that you tried to reach me, and I wasn’t there?”

Peter shakes his head dully. It’s true. Mr. Beck has always been there when Peter needed him.

“I have rules,” Mr. Beck says, in a tone so understanding that Peter somehow feels guilty. “I know it’s a challenge for you, coming from so much neglect. But everything I do is for your own good.” He strokes Peter’s sides, pulls him onto the bed and Peter moves gratefully with him. He’d been afraid his legs would go out from under him. Mr. Beck tilts his face up and Peter sniffles, swipes the back of his arm across his leaking nose.

“Everything I do is because I love you.”

_I love you. _ When was the last time he’d heard his father say that? How old had he been? Eight? Six?

Mr. Beck unbuttons his shirt and takes it off. He’s still wearing an undershirt, but the sight of his huge muscles makes Peter feel faint. He lifts the shirt up to Peter’s face and cleans the tears from his cheeks.

“Maybe I should just put you to bed. You look like you need rest.”

“Nooo,” Peter whines. “Put you to bed” is Mr. Beck’s euphemism for putting him in the enclosed bed that lurks underneath the bed they’re sitting on. It’s a cage with sheets. He’d be alone, unable to sit up. Alone with his pain. Alone with his fear. And Mr. Beck is being so nice to him, right now.

The man pulls back and looks him over, a long, assessing look that leaves Peter feeling simultaneously defenseless and appreciated. Mr. Beck always looks at him like he’s surveying some work of art. He strokes Peter’s hair and murmurs, “What kind of a father would I be if I didn’t take care of you?”

Peter doesn’t know what that means. Whether it means the cage underneath, or being fucked right now, but he reaches forward with clumsy hands to stroke Mr. Beck’s forearms. Mr. Beck watches him, concern in every line of his features.

“Please,” Peter says. Then, because that won’t be enough, “Love m-me...please?”

Mr. Beck’s eyes darken, but other than that, his expression remains distant. “Is this really going to help you, right now?” His hands circle Peter’s waist, fingers dipping to touch the uppermost welts at the top of his ass. Peter cries out at the unexpected pain, and fresh tears flow down his cheeks.

“Please,” he moans. “Please, please. I shouldn’t have run. I wish I could take it back, please let me take it back, sir!”

Mr. Beck’s steely gaze softens into something melancholy. For a moment he looks so sad, Peter feels like he’s kicked a puppy.

“Sir?” the man echoes.

Peter’s jaw trembles. 

“Daddy.”

The word feels like sewage splashed on his insides, but Mr. Beck’s eyes light up the way he’d hoped they would. Hot and hungry. Predatory. He takes Peter’s wrists and turns them up to the light, as if to study their circumference. Then he glances at the headboard, at the bars that stretch across it. At the leather cuffs chained to one of those bars.

“Lie down, kiddo. Put your hands up by the headboard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question my sanity on [tumblr](http://subverbaldreams.tumblr.com/fics), [newtumbl](http://subverbaldreams.newtumbl.com/), or [twitter](http://twitter.com/SubverbalD). 
> 
> Kudos = “I have a confused boner”  
Comment = “Dammit Ru!”
> 
> I consume comments like tasty, tasty snacks. I print them out and roll around in them.
> 
> Oh, almost forgot to link the image for the bed. You might’ve already seen this in my Eternity Rising story, but it deserved to get more mileage. Thank you, tumblr, for this gift.  



	2. Cracks in the Foundation

A pillow behind his head has never felt so good.

Peter lets Mr. Beck position him, lifts his arms so the man can strap his wrists into the leather cuffs that dangle from the headboard. He almost feels like he could float away. Just close his eyes and be somewhere else while Mr. Beck uses him.

Mr. Beck wraps the solid leather around Peter’s left wrist, but he stops before buckling it. He brushes Peter’s cheek with a light touch, studying his face. Peter becomes very conscious of his expression; he pushes his lips into a tiny smile and hopes it looks inviting.

“You seem a little spaced out,” Mr. Beck observes. “You sure you’re up for this?”

“Yes! Yes, please.” The disgust at himself for consenting to his own rape is far away. Peter  _ is _ spaced out. He’s never been so scared for so long, and the agony from being beaten has spread out over his entire body in a muffled drumbeat. It...feels good. That doesn’t make sense, but it’s true. The constant pulse has begun to feel like he’s wrapped in a thick, thrumming blanket, and when Mr. Beck touches Peter’s burning skin with his cool hands, it’s soothing.

Those hands stroke down his chest right now, circle over his nipples and squeeze his waist. 

“My boy,” Mr. Beck breathes. “Today’s been really rough, hasn’t it?”

Peter lowers his eyes. The fake smile drops and he knows he’s frowning, but maybe it’s safe to do that, right now. Mr. Beck seems sympathetic; maybe he sees how hard it’s been for Peter to cope with what’s been happening.

The hands framing his hips move lower, kneading into the welts on the backs of his thighs. Peter gasps. Crimson liquid heat billows out from the grip, rolls through his body until a moan floats out of him.

“But you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you, Petey?”

Peter nods. Oh, yes. He’s learned. 

No biting. 

Ever.

Ever.

Again.

“Please,” he whispers. He wants Mr. Beck to be sweet to him. He wants to lie back and close his eyes and pretend he’s at home. 

“It’s alright, Peter. I’m not angry. You might not believe this, but I really want what’s best for you.”

Peter nods. He would agree to anything, right now. 

“I know you’re worn out, but there’s something I want you to do for me. If you do a good job, I’ll let you sleep up top; how’s that sound?”

Up top? In a real bed—without bars? 

Peter’s traitorous heart jumps at the thought. He’s been locked in the underbed every night since Mr. Beck brought him here. Unable to sit up, unable to  _ get _ up, and he’s never been claustrophobic before in his life, but having the bed dip above him when Mr. Beck shifts around has started to make his heart take a sickening drop into his lower spine.

“Yes, please,” he gasps. Too eager, maybe, but Mr. Beck likes it when Peter goes along. He gives an affectionate smile and strokes Peter’s hair back from his forehead.

“Get on your knees.”

Peter doesn’t hesitate. He rolls onto his side and pushes to his knees. He starts to lower to his elbows, but a hand on his shoulder holds him up. Mr. Beck lays down beside him and pats his own hip.

“Climb on.”

Peter’s body feels weighted with an extra hundred pounds, but he hurries to obey. He wants to sleep up top. To be able to sit up and stretch. To be able to use the bathroom without knocking on the mattress above him to wake Mr. Beck. He pulls his leg over Mr. Beck’s hips and kneels straddling him, hands propped on either side of the man’s head. He’s unbearably exposed, in this position. Cool air caresses his asshole and the backs of his balls. The dangling head of his soft cock brushes into the curly hairs on Mr. Beck’s lower belly, exposed where the undershirt has ridden up. 

Mr. Beck cups his face, then strokes over his shoulders, kneads into the knotted muscles so that electric sparks roll down Peter’s back. He whimpers and closes his eyes. It feels so good. He’s humiliated, but Mr. Beck is helping him to cope with it.

“That’s my boy. My good boy. Stay right there.”

Peter jumps when flesh touches his cock, but Mr. Beck isn’t trying to stroke him. He’s reaching between them to open his own belt. The rasp of leather through the clasp is a visceral memory that brings goosebumps up Peter’s arms. Mr. Beck slides his pants down to his upper thighs, then takes the lube still sitting on the bed, squirts it into his palm and slips his hand back between them. He strokes himself in a long, fluid motion that make his knuckles brush against Peter’s balls. 

“Your turn. Hold out your hand.”

Peter obeys, and receives a palmful of lube.

“Slick yourself up for me, Peter. Get that hole nice and wet so I can slide right into you.”

Peter had thought his face couldn’t get any hotter. He’d been wrong. 

He reaches behind himself to do as he’s told. It’s just so he won’t tear. So he won’t feel that unbearable burning sensation, tomorrow.

But it feels like he’s a part of what’s happening, now. He’s not  _ letting _ it happen; he’s  _ making _ it happen. He’s almost relieved when Mr. Beck grabs hold of his hips and pulls down until Peter sits directly onto his cock. It’s not hard all the way, anymore.

“Ride it,” he says. His heavy-lidded eyes are only half opened. 

_ He’s always looking through half-drawn shades,  _ Peter thinks randomly. It’s a safe thought. It means he’s not thinking how, of his own volition, he rocks his hips back and forth to slide Mr. Beck’s cock between his ass cheeks. How Mr. Beck coaches him through it, tilts Peter’s hips in his strong hands so that he rolls them up and down. How he tells Peter to squeeze his cheeks together around his cock, how it grows against him: firm as a tree branch, long and thick enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.

No. He thinks of apartment windows with the shades half drawn so the tenants can look out, but no one can look in.

He thinks of how his father wears sunglasses when he doesn’t want to be seen. 

Tony Stark had never done that to Peter, though. Peter always got to see his eyes. Not gray, but chocolate brown and tired. Always tired and distracted.

_ He must be going crazy, right now, _ Peter thinks, as Mr. Beck’s cock slides along his anus. A promise and a threat.

He would gnaw off his own hand to see his father’s eyes again.

“That’s so good, Pete.” Mr. Beck’s husky voice jolts him back to reality. “Now, lift up...that’s right...take my dick and put the tip up against your hole…”

It’s awkward, trying to do this. Peter reaches between his legs at first, but can’t get the position right. He reaches behind himself, and pain flares up the backs of his legs. He has to slide forward up Mr. Beck’s hips before he can get the tip of the man’s long cock wedged between his ass cheeks. By the time he’s got it in position, embarrassment and pain have constricted his chest so tight he can hardly breathe. 

“Good boy. Now sink down on it and ride me. Show me how much you love having Daddy inside you.”

_ It’ll be over soon. I can sleep in a real bed. It’s gonna happen anyway just get it over with just get it over— _

He has to reach around to hold Mr. Beck’s cock in place while he pushes back on it. The whole position is humiliating. Half-twisted around, exposed, and worst of all, he can’t get it in. It’s always taken lots of prep, and it’s always been Mr. Beck on top. Right now, Peter’s all tensed up from holding his weight on his knees, and he can’t even get the very tip inside. Humiliation bleeds into panic. He can’t have gone through all this and still get caged underneath the bed. He  _ has _ to make it work. But he knows it’s going to hurt, and he’s tensed even more in anticipation of the pain. 

_ You can do this, _ he promises himself. _ You can take the pain. _

_ Told you my kid’s tough. _

Those last words come in his father’s voice. Vague impressions surround it: a doctor’s office, stitches being pulled through a gash in his knee. 

He hasn’t thought of that moment in years. He can’t remember how the injury had happened, but he remembers that even with the anesthetic, it had hurt. He remembers his father’s voice calling him tough, and that swelling of pride he’d felt. How suddenly the stitches had stopped hurting after he’d heard those words. 

He pushes back one more time, and the head pops inside.

He’s got to have torn something. White-hot pain shoots from his hole down the backs of his thighs. It takes everything he has not to lunge forward and escape it.

_ Told you my kid’s tough. _

Peter grits his teeth and tries to shove back again. It’s like he’s trying to push a dull knife through his skin. It hurts, but it won’t go in.

Black stars pop behind his eyelids. He can’t breathe.

_ My kid’s tough. _

Hands on his hips. Thumbs pressing down, holding him in place. Peter puts his hand over one of them and grips it. He can be tough for his dad. He can do this.

He pushes back, hard, and his lower half splits open. It’s hot and cold at the same time and he screams; he can’t help it. He grabs the other hand on his hip, too, holds both of them like he can hold his body together. It’s all he can do just to stay in one spot. If he moves, he’ll tear the wound open even more. He’s got to be bleeding; there’s no way this can hurt so much and not be bleeding.

_ “Oh, that’s good,” _ Mr. Beck rasps. The unexpected voice jolts him out of the half-remembered doctor’s office. The hands on his hips belong to his teacher, not his father. He isn’t safe; nothing about this is safe, and the realization turns the pain up another hundred degrees. 

“Rock your hips, baby. You’re halfway there.”

Peter shakes his head minutely. _ _

_ “Hurts.” _ He manages to push the word out using just the breath in his mouth. He still can’t breathe, except in half-hiccups.

“Do you need Daddy to help you?”

_ Not that word, god not now please god please not now. _

Peter gasps for air, still clinging to Mr. Beck’s hands on his hips. The inhale somehow makes the cock inside him grow, and he only gets half a breath in before it shudders back out as a hopeless sob. He can barely hold himself up on his knees and it hurts, oh god it  _ hurts. _ His thighs are trembling. He’s going to collapse.

”Peter. Do you need me to help?”

He jerks his chin in a quick nod. Mr. Beck’s hands flex beneath his, squeezing his hips.

“You’re doing so good, kiddo. It’s always okay to ask me for help. Alright?”

Mr. Beck goes silent, and Peter realizes he’s waiting for an answer. He nods again, but the silence continues. 

He looks up. 

Mr. Beck is watching him, eyes warm like banked coals.

“It’s okay, Peter. It’s always okay to ask your father for help. I’m here for you.”

Cold spills down Peter’s arms. The shaking in his thighs somehow makes it up to his jaw, and his teeth begin to chatter behind closed lips. Mr. Beck wants him to say it. To  _ say  _ it. He can hardly breathe, can hardly hold himself up, and this, and  _ this, _ he can’t  _ do _ this, he  _ can’t!  _ He’s Peter  _ Stark,  _ and his real father, his amazing, incredible, brilliant father Tony Stark is out there somewhere, looking for him. Tears pour down his cheeks as though he’s been punctured, Mr. Beck’s words slicing through him sharp as knives. The man still looks up at him, eyes sincere, hopeful, and Peter has never wanted someone dead so badly in all his life. Rage comes out of his mouth in a sob. His body convulses over Mr. Beck’s cock and the sob turns into a short scream, followed by more silent tears. His fingernails dig into the backs of Mr. Beck’s hands, but the man doesn’t complain.

_ It’s always okay to ask your father for help. _

_ “Help.” _ The word is barely a breath. 

Peter’s chest clenches. Waiting for the blow.

“Help, what?”

And there it is. 

He isn’t going to get away without saying it, and he can’t do what Mr. Beck wants without the man’s help. He’s already torn something, down there. He needs a doctor; his dad would’ve taken him to a doctor.

_ “Dad, help!” _

Peter closes his eyes tightly. It’s a cry for his real dad, but Mr. Beck doesn’t know that. He kneads Peter’s hips in pleasure, rumbles deep in his chest. A purr like a sadistic cat. He pulls one hand out of Peter’s clinging grip and slides it up his chest, his collarbone, until his long fingers close around Peter’s throat. 

“I’m right here, son,” Mr. Beck says. “This’ll make it better. Don’t be scared.”

Peter is, of course, instantly scared. Then the hand tightens down, and he’s  _ terrified. _ His hands fly to Mr. Beck’s wrist, then to his thumb and fingers, trying to pry them away. Mr. Beck’s other hand has become a vise on Peter’s hip, holding him in place. Peter opens his mouth in a desperate gulp, and is rewarded with a breath. He can still breathe, but he’s getting lightheaded.

“Shh, you’re safe. Daddy’s got you.”

Tighter. Tighter. He can still breathe, but the room has blurred out.

He’s in the doctor’s office. His father’s hands on his throat and hip. Something is hurting him, something he’s sitting on, but his dad holds him in place.

“This’ll make it better, Pete. You’re opening right up. Ohh, fuck. You’re doing so good.”

His father’s voice is strained. It doesn’t sound like him at all. But the touch is warm and grounding. 

_ Wait, _ he tries to say. The word comes out in an unintelligible huff. Pain spreads from his ass through his hips, down his legs. He holds onto his father’s wrist, tries to use it to lift himself away from the thing that’s hurting him.

“Shh,” that voice hushes him. The hand grips tighter, cutting off his air completely. “Ease back. It’ll start to feel better in a minute. You can do it, son. Yeah, you’re my tough boy. I know you can take it. Let your legs relax. That’s it.”

The hand loosens enough that Peter can rasp in a partial breath, then guides him down. He moves with it. The pain increases for a second, but then his ass is resting on a solid surface and his shaking thighs let go. He sits fully onto his father’s lap and the man sits up to embrace him, releasing his throat. Peter’s forehead drops onto his dad’s shoulder. He stays there, panting. His entire head is full of gray spots.

_ “There, you did it,” _ his dad whispers, stroking Peter’s back.  _ “I’m so proud of you.” _

Peter leans into his father and just tries to catch his breath. His brains feel like mud and when he breathes too deep it hurts, like something’s poking up under his ribs. He tries to shift where he’s sitting, because it hurts, it really, really hurts, but the movement makes everything a thousand times worse. Something huge and thick has him stuck in place, it holds the stretched ring of his asshole like a hand in a glove and that’s when he remembers he’s not at home, he’s with Mr. Beck, he’s being raped again, it’s  _ happening again _ —

Arms grip tight around him when he tries to lurch away. Peter can’t move. Even his frantic breaths are forced to slow, and the lack of air brings back the edges of the gray cloud. He fights briefly, but Mr. Beck’s arms are three times as big around as his own. He might as well try to lift a car. Held tight against the larger man’s hairy chest, Peter is as helpless as a child.

“Good boy. Fuck! That’s so good. You’re so tight and hot. Such a good boy, taking Daddy’s big dick all the way inside you like that.”

Peter sobs into Mr. Beck’s shoulder. He literally can’t do anything else. Except bite—but just the thought of trying that again turns his guts to ice.

Mr. Beck strokes his knotted back, unwittingly easing him out of the memory of the whipping. That had been worse than this. So much worse. He may want to break every one of Mr. Beck’s fingers, but at least they’re wiping his tears away instead of holding him down for the next blow.

“Put your arms around my neck. Good  _ boy,” _ Mr. Beck praises, pleased when Peter hurries to obey. “You’re halfway there. You keep this up, you’ll be sleeping here with me tonight. You excited about that?”

Up top; that’s right. That’s why he’s doing this. So he can sleep out of the cage. Peter nods into Mr. Beck’s shoulder, grateful for the reminder. He’s made it this far. He’s Tony Stark’s tough kid. He’s going to sleep in a real bed.

“That’s my boy,” Mr. Beck says, voice rough in his ear. “Now  _ ride _ me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not actually a serial killer, but I play one on TV. Come say hi on [tumblr](http://subverbaldreams.tumblr.com/fics), [newtumbl](http://subverbaldreams.newtumbl.com/), or [twitter](http://twitter.com/SubverbalD). 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	3. Marked

The first few times Peter rolls his hips, it’s a bizarre meld of agony and...not pleasure, exactly, but something that tingles through his fingers and toes and lips, something that tastes like oblivion. He hides his face in the curve of Mr. Beck’s throat and chases that feeling. The sharp pain has melted into something hot and wet, something he can deal with. His legs have given out, so he pulls with both arms locked around the back of Mr. Beck’s neck and tightens his stomach to slide himself up and down on the man’s huge cock. It’s not the long, pounding thrusts Mr. Beck usually gives him, but the man seems to like it. His breaths come in quick and shaky; his hands grope Peter’s back and thighs and ass, but he doesn’t try to direct Peter’s movements. He doesn’t praise, either, and the lack of verbal affirmation leaves Peter feeling queasy. Mr. Beck seems to be enjoying it, but what if he isn’t? Peter could have put himself through all of this, and still get stuffed under the bed like a used sex toy after they’re done.

He tries to get up on his knees, to get better leverage, but his legs won’t listen to him at all anymore. Peter clings to his teacher’s neck and tries to squeeze his ass harder as he tightens his stomach. It makes his cock drag through Mr. Beck’s belly hair, which...god, it feels good; it feels  _ really _ good, and he does it again without thinking. And again.

And again.

He stops after the fourth time. Mr. Beck still hasn’t said anything and Peter’s getting dead scared that he’s doing this wrong. He needs feedback. But that means he has to look up. To make eye contact after he’s spent the last few minutes wiggling around on his kidnapper’s erection like it’s the greatest thing in the world.

_ It’s just words; I’m just giving him words. It doesn’t mean anything. _

He wets his lips.

“Does it feel good, Daddy?”

It’s just words.

But those words creep under his skin. They turn the neck wrapped in his arms to his father’s neck. The hips between his spread legs to his father’s hips. Only for a second, but it’s enough to steal the breath right out of his lungs.

A big hand takes his chin and tilts his head up. Peter doesn’t even try to look away. He can’t fight anymore, not tonight. He looks right into Mr. Beck’s concerned gray eyes, naked inside and out as the man assesses him.

“Why would you ask that, Petey?”

_ I want to sleep in a real bed. _

_ I’m scared you’ll hurt me. _

Peter’s frozen like a deer in headlights. The only answers he can think of are the wrong ones, and he’s been quiet too long; Mr. Beck will know, he’ll realize, and Peter will be put under the bed again, he can’t have come this far just to lose his freedom again, he can’t!

“I dunno’f I’m doing it right,” Peter mumbles, hating the slur in his voice, the whimper that creeps beneath his words. 

“Oh, Pete.” Mr. Beck’s eyes go soft. He cradles Peter’s lower back and cups his face, and Peter’s heart tumbles sickly in his chest, buffeted between hope and fear.

“You’re  _ perfect,” _ Mr. Beck says, stroking his thumb along Peter’s cheekbone. “You’re doing such a good job, stretching that tight little rim on Daddy’s big dick. You feel so good, baby.”

The feeling that bursts in Peter’s chest at the praise leaves him reeling. He can’t actually tell if it’s relief, embarrassment, or pleasure. He tilts his head into Mr. Beck’s hand. It’s warm and callused, so huge compared to him, so gentle as it cradles him. He pulls himself up and down, each slide easier as he fucks himself on Mr. Beck’s cock, and when the man tilts his chin up for a kiss, Peter doesn’t flinch. His mouth is engulfed in a scratchy beard and warm, wet lips, a tongue that dives into his throat, and Peter opens to the assault. The arm around his waist tightens and Mr. Beck’s hips roll up. It blows Peter’s tiny movements away. He cries out into Mr. Beck’s mouth, has his cry swallowed as another roll of the hips shifts the pressure inside him. Hot sparks burst through his center and behind his eyes, spread along his limbs and leave him weak. Peter tries to get a breath to beg Mr. Beck to slow down, but the man is eating into his mouth, now, and won’t let him do more than whimper.

Mr. Beck takes over their movements completely. He shifts onto his knees, holding Peter like he weighs nothing. The pressure inside Peter changes with the movement, comes out his mouth as one breathless cry after another to be swallowed by Mr. Beck. The knife of pain has changed into something else: hot, searing pleasure like punching a bruise, and when Mr. Beck starts rolling his hips in a steady rhythm, that pleasure spreads out through Peter’s entire body so that it seems like he’s floating in a warm ocean.

“That’s beautiful,” Mr. Beck rasps. His hand closes around Peter’s cock and tugs on it, and Peter realizes he’s grown hard. The touch on his cock adds another cluster of sparks to the wave flowing through him. His eyes roll up and he moans as Mr. Beck nips at his lower lip.

“My good boy. Fuck, you’re so perfect. Look at you, just a slut for your Daddy’s dick.”

_ No, I don’t want it, _ Peter thinks, but it’s weak and far away, and doesn’t even come close to his lips. Mr. Beck thrusts up into him, punching out his breaths.

“Such a good son. Spreading yourself wide open for Daddy—fuck!” 

They spin around suddenly; the room keeps turning even after Mr. Beck throws Peter down on his back, still inside him. Peter’s legs fall helplessly open.

_ Spreading yourself wide open for Daddy. _

Mr. Beck pulls both Peter’s wrists above his head. He keeps grinding his hips as he ropes Peter’s wrists together.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” Mr. Beck hums, pleased, and it takes a minute for Peter to realize he’s still moaning. Mr. Beck secures his tied wrists to the headboard and takes Peter’s face in both hands, just looking at him while he circles his hips, stirring his cock around.

“Yeah, it feels good. It’s ok, son. I want you to feel good.”

Peter whimpers, which seems to make Mr. Beck happy. He grins in a crooked slash and reaches up, returns with a length of red silk in hand and slips it over Peter’s head, bringing it down over his eyes.

“You look so sweet in red,” he murmurs, as he takes Peter’s sight away. “My baby boy, all wrapped up like a Christmas present. Tell me how good it feels.” His weight shifts, cock moving inside of Peter and stealing his breath. Without sight, the feel and smell of Mr. Beck have become everything. 

Light slap across his cheek. Peter yelps, more from surprise than pain.

“I know you can hear me, son. Tell me how it feels.”

“Good!” Peter gasps. “So good!” His heart shrinks at how quickly the words spill out of him. Curdles more as Mr. Beck’s hand closes back around his cock, because it  _ does _ feel good, it feels amazing.

“Fuck my hand, Petey. Show Daddy how much you like it.”

Peter’s shoulders flinch inward, even as he starts humping into the hot, slick tube Mr. Beck has made out of his hand. Each pull with his stomach muscles makes his ass suck around Mr. Beck’s cock. Heat explodes through his center with every tilt of his hips. Rusty cries pour from his mouth. He can’t seem to shut up. He sounds like he’s enjoying it.

“You’re so good at this,” Mr. Beck coos. “I made you just for this, just to love me, and you’re so good at it, baby. You’re so good at loving Daddy’s cock.”

Peter’s skin is on fire. He feels filthy. Used. Sick. He needs this to be over. He’ll do anything for this to be over.

“Please, Daddy,” he whimpers.

_ Please just finish, please please please I can’t take any more, I CAN’T _

“Yeah, son?”

_ Oh god please, please _

“Please,” Peter moans. “Please, I cuh-ca-an’t…” 

_ Can’t do this, my heart hurts  _

“I’m sore...I need you to, to—”

His shaking abdominal muscles give out as he speaks, dropping him back onto Mr. Beck’s cock and knocking his breath out. He lays there, spread and twitching, unable to breathe. Unable to beg.

“Pete,” Mr. Beck says softly. “Baby, you’ve done such a good job. It’s okay. You get to sleep in Daddy’s bed, tonight. Alright?” He strokes the backs of his fingers down Peter’s cheek. Gentle. His hands are cool and comforting.

“‘Kay.” Peter forces the word out; he doesn’t want Mr. Beck to think he no longer wants his reward.

“Good boy. My good boy. See, when you’re good? You get to have what you want.”

_ I want to go home. I want my dad. _

But Peter nods, and opens his mouth when Mr. Beck’s lips come down on top of his. He kisses back the way Mr. Beck has been teaching him: stroking tongues, sucking lips. He drifts into the motion of it. Wet and heat. He’s so tired. Kissing feels nice.

_ “Oh, Pete.” _

The voice is just a gritty whisper against his lips.

“I want you to beg me. Just this one last thing. Beg me the way you did when I was whipping your pretty ass.”

_ When he was whipping—? _ That whole thing is a total blur. Peter has no idea what he’d said, or if there had even been words amid the screaming.

“Remember?” Mr. Beck breathes, and kisses him. “Remember how you called me Daddy?” More kisses. A bite to his lower lip. “How you begged me to stop?”

He’s rocking his hips again, and Peter’s insides wake up with fresh sensation. He whimpers, overwhelmed with it, with what he’s being asked to do. Does Mr. Beck  _ want _ Peter to beg him to stop? He can’t be understanding that right. Can he?

_ “Please,” _ Peter whimpers. At least that much is safe, and it has an effect. Mr. Beck growls deep in his chest, grinds his hips forward and up, and the whimper turns into a yelp. “OH! Plea— _ UHHNG!” _

_ “Daddy, please,” _ Mr. Beck rasps against his cheek. He thrusts in and out, picking up speed and Peter can’t breathe, it hurts and it feels so, so good, but it  _ hurts!! _

_ “Say it. Daddy, please stop. Say it, Pete.” _

Had he said that while Mr. Beck was whipping him? He can’t remember. It seems like something he should remember. But he can’t think, he’s so full and spread so wide and Mr. Beck is so big inside him and he wants it to stop, he’ll do anything—

_ “Daddy,”  _ he moans as that huge cock pulls out of him. It thrusts back in, harder, battering the air out of his chest. Peter thrashes his upper body, but he can barely move an inch. He gasps during the next pull-out.

_ “Daddy please STOP!”  _ The last word turns into a scream as Mr. Beck slams back into him. He picks up the pace, then: hard, fast thrusts that stoke up a fire in Peter’s midsection. He holds Peter’s hips and curls over him to bite his throat, hard bites that spread the pain from his inside to his outside.

_ “Dad...dy, s—top! Stop, STOP, PLE-EASE DADDYYYY!” _

He doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. What it means. He’s so wide open, used and bruised and dripping and filthy, and there’s a man’s voice calling him a slut for his dad, calling him daddy’s whore, and Peter doesn’t know if that’s true or not, he just keeps saying the same thing over and over because that’s the only thing he can think of that will make the voice happy.

_ “Stop, daddy, stop, daddy, please, pLEASE daddy stop please—” _

The thrusts come harder, steal his words away. That big cock pushes raw screams out of him on every thrust. Big hands move his ankles from one shoulder to the other, his knees up by his ears, and finally hold the backs of his welted thighs in a vise grip as his weight falls on top of Peter and his tongue shoves deep into Peter’s throat and he can’t breathe and it feels  _ so incredible. _ A cascade of sparks rolls through his lower spine and behind his eyes and then his cock is pulsing and he can’t even cry out. His own cum splashes over his stomach, one blissful throb after another. This time, there’s no mistaking his moans for screams.

A hand swipes over his belly and then slaps his face, hard and wet, leaving the bitter taste of his own cum on his lips.

“That’s daddy’s little cumslut.  _ Fuck,” _ Mr. Beck growls, and it brings Peter back down from his high.

He just came. He came, untouched, from being raped and yelling “daddy.” 

Peter bursts into tears.

“Shh, it’s okay, son,” Mr. Beck murmurs. Hot breath on his cheek and Mr. Beck is holding his face and kissing away his tears. It makes him cry even harder. There’s cum on his face. He’s so dirty.

“Oh, Petey,” Mr. Beck says, voice strained. “Daddy’s been saving up this nice, big load for you. Gonna plant my seed inside you and make you mine.”

Sobs shake Peter’s whole body. He just wants to go home. He wants his own bed. An arm wraps around behind his shoulders, lifting him so his cheek is pressed into a masculine chest and Peter buries his face in it.

_ “Dad,” _ he whimpers. Doesn’t realize the word is going to come out of his mouth until it’s already happened.

The thrusts stop. The cock inside of him thickens. Somehow, it shoves deeper, plunging so far inside of him it’s like they are one. 

And it starts to pulse. 

The man groans, loud and deep. He holds Peter in place against his chest so he can’t squirm away and Peter’s choking on his own breath, on the taste of his cum and the smell of male sweat while Mr. Beck fills him with his load. His body’s still throbbing from his orgasm and the added slickness of cum inside him makes the slide so much easier than before, as Mr. Beck begins thrusting again. His hand circles Peter’s throat, thumb tracing over what feels like torn skin. 

_ “Daddy’s boy,”  _ he whispers.  _ “Now you’re marked properly.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 like = 1 healing potion  
1 comment = 3 extra lives
> 
> Holler at me here or on [tumblr](http://subverbaldreams.tumblr.com/fics), [newtumbl](http://subverbaldreams.newtumbl.com/), or [twitter](http://twitter.com/SubverbalD).


	4. Video

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark receives a message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING** OK I do a lot of “victim still has a great orgasm” rape scenes. This chapter contains one that is much more violent and scary. If you need a spoiler, I put one in the end notes; click the link right under this to be taken to the end notes.

Buzzing. A low buzz through his hands—annoying. He’s trying to sleep. Tony moves to swat at it, hears it clunk to the floor. It keeps buzzing.

_ Phone. PHONE! _

He sits up straight with a gasp. His tablet, precariously balanced between a coffee mug and a bottle of scotch, takes a short jump and joins the phone. Tony cranes around the desk to see the phone’s face.

_ Cap is calling,  _ the screen announces. Tony dives to swoop the phone off the floor and smashes the “answer” icon.

“What is it? What’s happened?!” The words tumble out in a slur.

“Hey, Tony.” Captain Steve Rogers of the New York Metropolitan Police sounds tired. This is not the voice of triumph. This is defeat rendered through sound waves. Tony’s guts drop through the floor.

_ “What happened?!”  _ he asks again. Panic, ever near, is creeping up through his throat.

“Nothing,” Steve says quickly. “No news. I’m sorry.”

Tony reels for a second.

“Nothing,” he repeats. “Then  _ why _ are you calling me?”

“I…” Steve pauses. “I wanted to check on you. Pep called. She said you haven’t left your office in four days.”

Tony’s near panic attack takes a last-second swerve and becomes a flare of anger. What is  _ with _ people? Ever since Peter’s disappearance, they’ve started to tiptoe on eggshells around him. He needs investigators, not fucking sycophants. He’s always had his share of the latter. He shoves back in his chair, kicks the fallen tablet away and uncorks the scotch. He pours two fingers into the coffee-stained mug beside it. The mug Peter bought him two years ago. It has a picture of the Starship Enterprise on it.

“Doesn’t  _ ‘Pep’  _ have a company to run?” Tony snaps. “I’m not paying her seven figures a year to fucking  _ stalk _ me.”

“Woah, woah! Ease up! She just wants you to be okay.” Steve actually has the gall to sound  _ offended. _

“Oh yeah? Is that what you want, too?” 

“Of course,” Steve says. He sounds hurt. “Tony—”

“Then why are you making a social call instead of looking for my  _ son?  _ Captain?”

“Tech is doing what they can with the cell, but whoever it is covered their tracks—”

_ “Tech,” _ Tony spits. “I already know that phone inside and out. I told you it was a dead end before I  _ handed _ it to you.”

Before he handed it to Steve Rogers five days ago. After turning its programming inside out, trying to trace the number his son had been texting for the last few months before his disappearance, a number that doesn’t exist. And the only reason he’d given it to Steve at  _ all _ was to substantiate what he‘d been telling them from the beginning: that Peter’s been kidnapped. By someone older. Someone who had worked on him.

Someone who’d  _ groomed _ him.

Steve had been the one to say the word. “Groomed.” Like Peter was some fucking show dog. And Tony had thrown Steve Rogers out of his house, cussed him right out the door, because it was a fucking insult. 

Because it was true.

_ He’s a textbook narcissist, Pete. _

They’d turned Peter against him.

_ I just hate the way he neglects you. You deserve so much more. _

Tony drinks down his scotch without tasting it. After a long pause, Steve speaks.

“Can I come see you? I could bring dinner—”

“Is this—are you  _ serious?” _ Tony splutters. “No! No, you cannot ‘bring dinner.’ You can look for my son. That is what you can do. You can go back to your bulletin board, or whatever Stone Age casefile system you’ve got over there, and you can find Peter Stark and then, when he’s home safe with me,  _ then _ you can go and have dinner.”

“Tony—” A warning growl. Steve’s voice is just starting to heat up.

Vindictively satisfied, Tony hangs up.

He rocks back in his chair, thumbing the damp rim of the Star Trek mug. There’s no help for it; he’s awake again. The hundreds of texts begin scrolling through his eidetic memory, like they’ve been doing since he first read them.

He pictures Peter’s quick fingers, tapping out his cry for help:  _ It’s like I’m invisible to him. _

And some shadowman, some predator, baiting his trap:  _ That’s because he can only think of himself. It’s not your fault. This is all on him. _

Tony surveys his sterile office. Four walls, ceiling and floor. Nothing living in this room but him. 

The side of the building says STARK. For his father. For him.

For his son.

He bends slowly and picks up the fallen tablet. Opens it; checks his emails.

And his heart lurches.

One message stands out from the rest. A link. The title, a single word.

_ Peter. _

It could be spam, but he designed his own spam filtration system and it hasn’t failed him since beta. This isn’t random, and if it’s a hacker—well. He’ll take his chances. He clicks the link and pinches out to move the screen to his 40-inch monitor. A red pop up warns him that him he’s on an unverifiable website. He ignores it. His attention is captured by the video that fills the Starkview browser window.

A concrete room lit from one corner. Empty, but for a twin mattress on the floor. 

Cold rains down Tony’s body like sleet. 

He knows. He knows what’s about to happen.

The camera turns, smooth like it’s on a stand. It pans right, revealing a limp figure on the floor. Naked. Bound.

_ Peter. _

His wrists are duct taped together. Another piece of tape covers his mouth, and his eyes are closed. He’s completely motionless. He looks like—

He can’t be—

_ “No.” _ The denial comes out of Tony like a muscle spasm.

A male figure obscures the screen, walking out from behind the camera. He’s dressed all in black from ski mask to gloves to boots, not an inch of skin showing. He walks up next to Peter, shifts offscreen and comes back holding a five gallon bucket. 

He tilts the bucket over Peter’s face. Water splashes out, and Peter’s arms jerk up; he curls away from the flow of water and Tony almost sobs in relief. He’s alive. Hurt...but alive.

The man sets down the bucket and grabs Peter as he tries to squirm away, throws him onto his back and slaps him. And again. And again. The sound of the blows echoes through the computer’s speakers. 

_ “Get the fuck up. Get up. On your knees.” _

The voice is distorted; something from a nightmare. Some kind of voice changer underneath the man’s mask. The sound of it seems to terrify Peter, who wrenches hard at the grip on his arms. He frees himself and falls to the floor, pushes onto his bound fists and tries to run. The man grabs his hair and yanks him back, punches him in the ribs, then rips the tape off his mouth while he’s curled up in pain. He takes Peter under the arms and drags him closer to the camera, then kicks him until his back is turned towards Tony.

Tony covers his mouth with one hand, as if he can stop the horror from crawling out of his throat in a scream. Peter’s backside is striped with welts.

_ “Please...please...” _

His baby’s cracked whimper draws a sob from the back of Tony’s throat. He reaches out and traces Peter’s abused thigh at the bottom of the screen.

The man disappears for a few seconds. He returns with a short, many-tailed whip in hand, and wastes no time laying into Peter’s already bruised flesh. The first scream drills through Tony’s ears, shivers down his spine and blows his heart into shreds. Peter screams until his voice gives out, as blow after blow rains down on his back, ass, and legs. Whenever he tries to crawl away, the man kicks or pulls him back to the same spot, in view of the camera.

By now, Tony is practically being held up by the edge of the desk. He can think of a few reasons the kidnappers would send this video. None of them end with Peter alive. And that’s what finally spurs him to do more than sit and stare.

“JARVIS,” he croaks, activating his computer secretary. A red dot in the corner of the monitor tells him it’s listening. “Trace the server this video’s coming from. And record—” His voice hitches. “—Record it.”

The red light winks at him, and Tony shuts his mouth. He already lost precious seconds of sound. Of his son’s voice.

His son.

Peter is curled on his side, bound wrists shielding his face. The man cuffs him across the head and grabs his hair, drags him halfway to his feet and throws him onto the mattress. Peter lets out a whimpering cry as the man crouches over him and shoves him onto his back.

The man kneels on Peter’s chest and slaps him, hard. One cheek and then the other. He catches Peter’s hands when they come up to push him away, and holds them off to one side. Peter gasps, as if to scream. It’s his last breath before the man stuffs three gloved fingers into his mouth.

Peter thrashes in place as those fingers plunge into his throat like they’re reaching for his stomach. His choked gurgles echo through Tony’s chest. He coughs wildly after the fingers come out of his mouth, dripping with saliva. They shove between his legs, and both Peter and Tony jump.

“No, please,” Peter moans. “Please, no, please,  _ no, PLEASE!!” _

The cries become a scream, and the two of them lurch together as Peter tries to escape that hand. The man pins him down easily. Peter’s movements seem uncoordinated—as though he’s drugged. Or something worse. 

Head injuries. Brain damage. A dozen horrific possibilities whisper despair in Tony’s mind as the anonymous kidnapper pumps his hand brutally between Peter’s legs.

_ “S-st-op,” _ Peter whimpers.  _ “No…no…” _ He shakes his head in silent denial as the man shoves one of his legs up to his chest and leans against him to hold it there while he undoes his own pants.

Tony’s entire body has gone numb. His baby boy is covered in bruises, scabbed streaks where he’s been beaten. His ribs stand out sharply and his eyes can’t seem to focus on anything. Tony watches helplessly from his desk as the man positions himself between Peter’s legs. He thrusts his hips and Peter screams. Tony’s breath all huffs out as if he’s been punched in the guts. A red bar over the screen informs him that the video can’t be traced. Tony glances up only the instant it takes to read it and confirm what he’d already known he would see.

_ “DAAAD!”  _ Peter screams, and Tony freezes in place.  _ “HELP ME!” _

Tony grips both side of his face as though he can hold his pounding pulse inside—or as if he might rip his own skin off. The kidnapper flips Peter onto his stomach and drives into him from behind, then rails him violently into the mattress. Peter’s shrieks crackle through the speakers.

By the time the man pulls out, Tony’s agile mind is frozen solid. He can’t think. He can’t plan. He’s empty; nothing inside him but his son’s screams. Nothing exists in the room except for the scene on his monitor: what may very well be the last few moments of Peter’s life.

Peter clutches the mattress and sobs weakly, his legs still wide open as the man walks offscreen. Tony leans across the desk and strokes the screen over his son’s bruised body. Thumbs Peter’s hair as if he could actually touch it. His own cheeks are wet with tears, but he’s hardly aware of them.

_ “I love you, baby,” _ he whispers, then his throat twists up and he couldn’t speak if he wanted to.

_ “Please stop,” _ Peter chokes, the words whimpered into his clenching hands.  _ “Please, stop.” _

Another figure enters the screen. Blue shirt instead of black, but otherwise, it could have been the same man. He stalks up to the bed. Tony presses his fingers against his son’s vulnerable body, as if to shield him. As if to say goodbye.

_ Love you, _ Tony mouths.

No weapons are drawn. No gun to end Peter Stark’s life. Instead, the man kneels between Peter’s legs and opens his fly.

_ “YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”  _ Tony bellows, shooting to his feet. The chair catches on his heel and he kicks it away, hears it crash behind him as the man takes Peter’s hips and thrusts into him. Peter claws at the mattress and screams.

_ “DAD! DAAAAAAD!” _

Letters appear across the bottom of the screen, quick like they’re being typed out.

Y O U H A V E N O O N E T O B L A M E B U T Y O U R S E L F

The browser window goes black.

Tony stands in numb silence. 

Then he fumbles at the touchscreen. At the email. At the link. None of it works anymore. He can’t get back to the video feed. He can’t get back to Peter.

He jerks away from the desk as if it’s burned him. Staggers for a few steps, before the scotch burns up his throat. He bends double and heaves bile onto the floor, Peter’s last screams echoing in his ears.

The next few hours are a blur, as Tony’s world falls apart in his 88th floor office.

~~~~

Panting from beneath the bed.

Quentin cracks an eyelid and smiles. Lies still and listens as Peter claws his way out of sleep. As his pants turn to whimpers, and whimpers become attempted words. With all the drugs still floating through his system, he’s got to be struggling just to stay awake.

It’s been six hours. Tony should have seen the video by now. The way Peter had screamed for his “dad”—whether he’d meant Quentin or Tony, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t have scripted it any better. Peter hadn’t even noticed him change clothes; his reaction to the “others” had been genuine terror. 

God, Quentin would give his right hand to have seen Tony’s face. To watch his plan, years in the making, finally bear fruit. To watch that bastard get the first taste of the destruction he so utterly deserves.

_ You ruin my life? I ruin yours. With interest. _

_ “Mr. Beck?” _ comes the whimper from under the bed, and Quentin’s heart swells fondly. Peter Stark is so much more than he could have dreamed; so much more than just a tool to destroy his father. No, he’s the perfect son, brilliant and good-hearted, just waiting for a parent who can care for him the way he needs. He’s still young enough to be salvaged. It’ll be hard on him, at first, but he’ll come around. After he breaks.

After Quentin puts him back together.

_ “Please,” _ Peter moans. 

He lets Peter beg for another few minutes, but his resolve crumbles when he hears the magic words.

_ “Daddy, please. Daddy, I need you, please.” _

Quentin shifts onto his elbow, let’s the sheets rustle as though he’s just waking up.

“Pete? What’s wrong, kiddo?”

A grateful sob comes from under the bed. 

_ “Please, please, h-help, I dunno what h-hap-pened,”  _ Peter manages, before his words are taken by sobs.

Quentin’s smile softens, warm with the love he’s developed for his perfect boy.

“I’ll be right there, son. Hang on.”

~~~~

Peter knows he’s a mess. He’s trying to explain something he doesn’t understand, himself. His tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth, and he has to search for every other word. 

He’d fallen asleep under the bed and woken up somewhere else. Some barren room where he’d been used, over and over, by a group of faceless men. His voice shakes and his words slur. His brain is sloshing in his head like a ship on stormy waters. Nothing seems real. He keeps thinking he’ll blink and be back there again.

“‘Salright, Pete, shh. It’s alright. I’ve got you. Daddy’s got you.” 

Mr. Beck rocks Peter in his arms. His voice is deep and soothing. Familiar. It helps him to stay present. Peter burrows into his teacher’s side, clinging tight. He has to hold on to something; the world is slipping away from him. 

_ _ _ “But what...if, if they...come back?” _

A large hand cups the back of his head. Peter flinches (memory a gloved palm that slams across his face), but the tension bleeds out of his shoulders as Mr. Beck strokes him, firm and gentle. Grounding. Mr. Beck may have done some terrible things; he’s kidnapped Peter and is trying to create this twisted relationship between them, but he would never let someone else hurt Peter. He’s so possessive. Whatever else he might do, he isn’t going to let Peter fall into the hands of a group of masked torturers.

“Peter, I promise you, no one’s been here. You’ve been having a lot of nightmares, lately. Screaming in your sleep. Remember? That’s why you’ve been taking the sleeping pills.”

Is it? Peter doesn’t remember that at all. He thought he was taking the pills because he had to. He thought he remembered refusing the pills and being spanked until he cried. But now that Mr. Beck mentions it, he has a vague memory of asking for the pills. Of fearing sleep, because sleep meant being locked up. 

Brittle anxiety swells and breaks in his chest. He isn’t sure, now. Had he made up that moment of punishment just so he could feel better about taking the pills? What else is his mind hiding from him?

“Would you stay up with me, sir?” Peter asks in a small voice. Then remembers, and adds: “Daddy?” The word doesn’t even sting. Mr. Beck is his only safe harbor from the hell that awaits him, under the bed.

Mr. Beck’s arms tighten around him in a breath-stealing hug, then release and he kisses the top of Peter’s head.

“Of course I will,” he says gently. “C’mon, kiddo. You want to watch a movie?”

Peter nods into the man’s neck. They can watch anything, as long as he doesn’t have to let go.

  
  


They wind up watching “Road to Singapore.” Curled on the couch next to Mr. Beck, Peter drifts in and out as the old black and white characters prattle on the screen. He doesn’t look at the windows. Even if he could get out, he wouldn’t. Part of him is still sure those men are out there, somewhere. Waiting.

He can’t get comfortable. He’s scared of the door crashing in, of men with the voices of demons killing Mr. Beck and dragging Peter away. He aches all over from the last time Mr. Beck whipped him, and his asshole burns from the last time they’d had sex. That all must have crossed over into the nightmare. But Mr. Beck gives him some pills, and not long after, the pain disappears under a soothing fog.

Bing Crosby and Bob Hope banter through their dire straits. Mr. Beck’s arm comes around Peter’s shoulders and pulls him close, and Peter snuggles into his side. 

_Smell so good,_ he thinks. His thoughts have become soft as pads of cotton, allowing him to look at things he’s been avoiding. 

He’s been thinking of Mr. Beck as a monster, but he’s not. His rules are...they’re a lot. They’re extreme. But when Peter follows them, Mr. Beck is like a doting father. Even when Peter’s a mess, when he’s falling apart, Mr. Beck never makes it seem like he’s a burden. It makes him remember when he was young, when his dad spent more time with him. Sometimes he would feel like the center of Tony Stark’s world. Those moments stand out in his memories like oases in a desert. Having Tony Stark’s love was like being on a cloud where no one could touch him.

He curls his fingers in the bottom folds of Mr. Beck’s button-down shirt. 

He feels safe, here.

Peter’s eyes slip closed. A big hand strokes up and down his arm, heavy and warm. It isn’t his dad. He knows it isn’t.

But he pretends.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: Tony receives a video showing Peter being beaten and raped by multiple men. Cut scene to Beck’s POV, afterward, and he recalls how he changed clothes offscreen to make it appear that there were multiple attackers. Beck drugged Peter for the scene. Afterward, he convinces Peter that it was all a nightmare and turns on the caretaking persona. Peter begins to believe Beck isn’t really all that bad.
> 
> As always, your comments make it worthwhile; I would love to hear what you think!


	5. Lonely

Quentin pauses outside the basement door to check the video feed from his phone. The camera is on night mode, and picks up Peter in the darkness. 

The boy is right where he left him. The manacles should be impossible for him to get out of, but Quentin is a careful man. And this is his boy; his one and only. He’s taking no chances.

He hadn’t wanted to put Peter down here. But the kid lost his head while Quentin was out getting groceries, beat himself senseless against the bars of the underbed and left bruises all over his creamy skin and pretty face. 

It’s a travesty. His beautiful son, black and blue by his own hand.

Well. It  _ had _ been by his own hand. At first.

Quentin opens the door and flicks on the light. Peter cowers in the corner, head bent to his knees while Quentin descends the short stairs. It’s not a full cellar, more like a closet under the house. Probably meant for wine, once upon a time. It works perfectly for his purpose. He lined all the walls and the floor with four-inch thick black rubber padding when he bought the place. He’d anticipated this rough patch with his boy; Peter has a strong attachment to his past life that’s going to take time to rewrite. But they’re making progress. Very good progress. 

“Hey, Pete.”

No answer. Peter has his face tucked into the wall. The room has started to air out since his last visit, when he had needed to empty out the bucket. He’s reduced Peter’s food and water enough, since putting him down here, to minimize that little issue.

He walks up to Peter and goes to one knee beside him. The boy’s eyes are still mostly shut, unaccustomed to the light. His upper half is securely encased in a dull, white straitjacket. His lower half is naked, except for the heavy manacles that bind his ankles together by a short chain, which in turn binds him to the wall. It was a careful choice. Just enough length for Peter to reach the bucket. Not enough for him to strangle himself, no matter how flexible he may be. Still, Quentin’s kept close watch on him. He’s dedicated this entire chapter of his life to making Peter his; he won’t let some slip of his attention give the boy an escape.

Quentin takes in the deep, black bruises on his boy’s skin. The rows of welts. The spackle of scabs where his baby has bled for him. Every bruise Peter had inflicted on himself has been thoroughly blotted out. Wiped clean by Quentin’s belt, and where that wasn’t enough, by a cane.

He reaches out to smooth his palm along Peter’s cheek and turn the boy’s face toward him. These bruises make him less happy. His left cheek is swollen, his lips are puffy, and the bottom one is scabbed. Last time Quentin visited, he had a talk with Peter about him chewing on it when he’s left alone. (He pulls it out with his thumb to check, but there are no new wounds.) Peter’s left eyelid is still swollen so it gives him a droopy-eyed appearance. The golf-ball sized knot on his temple is deflating, slowly. Same for the one on his forehead. He’s been foggy since the blow that knocked him out. Slurring. But the concussion has made him docile, and that in turn has allowed Quentin to be gentle with him. 

Peter needs gentleness, right now.

Peter has managed to open his eyes all the way at last. His gaze is unfocused, hovering somewhere around Quentin’s jaw. Quentin strokes his boy’s unbruised cheek with a loving hand.

Peter’s eyelashes flutter.

“Dad?” 

***

“Dad?”

Peter’s voice is a sticky croak. He sees a male jawline, but that’s it before his vision blurs out. He can see everything else just fine, but his eyes won’t focus on the man’s face.

“I’m right here, baby.”

Peter’s heart takes a strange, swooping dive. He hugs himself tight against the sudden cold.

_ It’s ok. It’s just Dad. It’s just a nightmare but he’s here, now. _

That doesn’t explain how he’s wearing a straitjacket. Or why he’s got chains on his ankles. There are a lot of things that aren’t making sense right now. He’s been having really bad dreams. Maybe he’s had the flu—his head hurts really, really bad. Everything does.

“Peter. Look at me.”

Another dizzying drop in his chest. Peter raises his eyes. With the lightbulb behind his head, his father’s face is shadowed. The features blur: the eyes too deep, the mouth too long. Peter shrinks against the wall.

“What do you want, right now?”

It takes a minute for the question to unscramble in his brain. And when it does, he finds himself lost. 

“Wh—?”

“What do you want? Right now? What would make you happy? I want you to tell me, so that I can help you.” 

His dad smiles. His mouth seems too wide. Has it always looked like that? 

“I want you to be happy, son.”

Peter closes his eyes. The room is spiraling around him. He can’t think past the hammering in his head.

“Wa-water,” he croaks.

“Of course.”

The voice is soothing. It doesn’t mesh with the dropping sensation in his chest.

Shift of cloth between them. Peter opens his eyes a crack at the distinct, muted bubble of a water bottle being upended.

His dad has the bottle up to his own lips, drinking. Peter’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth with envy. He needs—he’s so thirsty. He needs it. A dry whimper ghosts out of him. The bottle lowers, and Tony gives him a tight-lipped smile. He cradles Peter’s cheek and leans into him.

His mouth comes down over Peter’s.

Water spills between his lips, pushes into Peter’s mouth and he opens to it gratefully. His dad’s tongue is in his mouth and his chest is shrinking and expanding all at once. Tearing apart between want and sickness.

_ Wrong. Something’s wrong with this. _

He drinks until his father pulls away. Chases the man’s lips, then sucks the remnants of liquid from his own.

“More?” Peter mewls.

“In a minute.” There’s an indulgent smile in his dad’s voice. Like he’s amused at Peter’s behavior.

_ Something’s wrong. _

“What else, Pete? What’s something else that would make you happy, now that you’ve had water?”

The man’s face spins around like the hand on a clock. Peter closes his eyes, sickened. His skull throbs. He’s not sure this is even his dad, with him. It looks like somebody else. In fact, he’s pretty sure it  _ is _ somebody else.

_ I hit my head. _

The thought is vague, and floats away as soon as he thinks it.

“Wanna go home,” he mumbles. “I want my dad.” Then, in case the man doesn’t know who that is: “His name’s Tony Stark.”

“Oh, Pete.”

The disappointed sigh makes Peter’s heart drop right through the floor. His eyebrows draw together, causing a bolt of lightning to jag through his head. Peter hugs himself tightly, afraid he’s having some kind of embolism, or a heart attack. That gentle hand tilts his face up, up and up, until he’s looking into the half-lidded gray eyes of 

...of.

Mr. Beck.

Peter’s breath stops. 

He’s been fogging in and out since he hit his head. Now, the fog clears just enough for him to remember where he is, and terror takes everything else. He should say something conciliatory, smooth things over, but his mind is a complete blank. Mr. Beck strokes down Peter’s cheek, then his hand is gone and he gets to his feet. His unhappy gaze locks with Peter’s, soft like a caress, and it kills him that he feels like he’s disappointed the man. 

“I know, deep in your heart, you want to be good. I know you can be.” Mr. Beck’s forehead creases, eyebrows drawing together. 

“I’m your father, Peter. I just want you to be happy.” 

He smiles gently, sadly, then turns around. Walks up the steps and pauses at the door. 

Hand on the light switch.

_ No! Oh god, no, no, no, don’t leave me here! _

But Peter’s mouth is frozen, and the cries don’t come out. This can’t really be happening. This is another nightmare. It’s not real. He can’t be here; this isn’t real!

“I love you,” Mr. Beck says. 

The light clicks off.

The door opens. Shuts. 

Darkness.

Peter whimpers.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


Arms around him. His father’s arms. Chin on top of his head, Tony’s got him snuggled into his chest.

_ Love you,  _ Peter wants to say, but his mouth is so dry. So he says it in his head. 

_ Love you. Love you. _

A click.

His dad disappears.

The chest against Peter’s cheek morphs into a padded rubber floor. The arms around him are his own. Peter doesn’t know if his eyes are open or closed, until the light comes on and he has to squeeze them shut. He doesn’t know what just happened. He must have fallen asleep and didn’t hear his dad leave the room.

Quiet steps. Rustle of cloth. The floor dips beside him.

“Hi, baby.”

If he had more strength, he would cry. It’s so good, not to be alone. He wishes he could explain that. How much it means to him. But all he can manage is a tiny whimper to show that he heard.

“I’m gonna help you sit up, okay? Then we’re gonna have some water.”

Another wordless whine. He’s equally desperate for both water and for touch. It feels like he’s been alone forever.

Tony pulls him up into the curve of his arm, and everything swims. Peter turns into his chest, the only stable thing as the room rocks around them. His dad smells so  _ good. _ Male and strong and warm. He strokes Peter’s cheek, the one that isn’t bruised, and his touch is pure bliss. 

The crack of a seal being broken. The soft burble of a water bottle being drunk down. Peter’s lips part in anticipation.

His dad’s mouth closes over his. Hot lips and cool water and Peter’s in heaven. He suckles his father’s lips, savoring every last drop. He sighs a protest when his father pulls back, but it’s just to take another drink. When he lowers his head again, Peter lifts up to meet him halfway. Tony moans, low in his chest, and cradles the back of Peter’s neck.

“Good boy,” he murmurs as he straightens, and Peter turns his face back toward the man’s chest so he can breathe in that delicious scent. 

His dad’s fingers nudge against his lips. A new smell brings a painful gush of saliva to Peter’s mouth.

“Eat it, baby. That’s right.” Tony encourages him as Peter sucks the sweet, tender bite of chicken from his fingertips. It tastes so good, he moans and his toes curl. The manacles around his ankles clink, but he’s used to the sound. It’s just background noise. Another bite of meat touches his lips, and Peter sucks his dad’s fingers as he takes it. He earns a stroke through his hair that makes the cold room go warm. His dad feeds him two more bites, then another mouthful of water. 

It’s amazing, the difference it makes. Peter feels new energy coursing through his body. When his eyes open, he can actually focus on things. But there’s nothing in the room he wants to look at. Nothing except Tony. A gentle smile spreads across his dad’s face when he sees Peter looking up at him. The light is a halo behind his head, casting his face in shadow, but Peter can still see that smile. A queasy shiver rolls through him, but then it’s gone.

“Hey,” Tony murmurs.

“Hh,” Peter rasps. Then, more clearly: “Hey.”

“How’s my boy?” Tony’s fingers trace the outline of Peter’s face.

“Miss you,” Peter says. He turns his face back into his father’s chest. Burrows into it like he can melt them together. “Please don’t go.”

Several breaths pass in silence. Peter shifts inside the scratchy canvas sleeves. He’s getting used to the constant pain, but he still misses his bed.

“I need to ask you a question, Peter. And I need you to answer honestly.”

Another roll of unease, this one powerful enough to make the room tilt. 

“Can you do that for me?”

Peter nods. His dad puts a finger under his chin and turns his face up so they’re eye to eye. Light and shadow. 

“I want you to tell me what you want. What would make you happy, right now?”

The fog swirls around in Peter’s head as he tries to make sense of the question. What does he  _ want? _

“Just wanna be with you,” he says. Doesn’t Tony know how much Peter always wants to be with him? 

Tony strokes his cheek. Traces his lips, the curve of his nose.

“Yeah?” He smiles softly, gazing down at Peter with a warmth that fills the cold spaces in his chest. Peter nods.

“Dad,” he begins, but something makes him pause.

He wants another kiss. But he can’t make himself say it. Something feels wrong about asking his father for that.

“What is it, baby?” His dad strokes his cheek. Encouraging him. And Peter finds the words he needed.

“Can I have—can you give me some more water?”

An expression crosses his dad’s face that’s alien and familiar at the same time. Something dark, and knowing, and satisfied. Without saying a word, he lifts the water bottle to his lips. 

Peter’s heartbeat quickens as his father’s face lowers over his. As their lips press together. As cool, sweet water fills his parched mouth, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a kiss.

And it feels so, so good.

The man pulls back slowly. Peter’s curled his legs into Tony’s side, huddled as close to him as he can get. The moment is bliss, despite his aching body, until Tony shifts underneath him. Peter’s heart takes that sick plummet he’s starting to recognize and dread. This one leaves his fingertips tingling.

“No!” he whimpers. “Don’t go! Please!”

“Shh,” Tony says. He shifts Peter back onto the floor and starts to rise. 

“No, please, no, nonono don’t go! Please! Just a little longer!”

He’s hyperventilating. Lightning bolts of pain stab through his skull.

Tony kneels back down beside him. He digs around in his pocket for a second, then brings something out and holds it up for Peter to see.

A key.

The man smiles down at him. 

“Let’s get you home.”

***

Peter fogs in and out. His surroundings change, but there’s one constant through it all. His father. Always nearby. Always touching. Whenever Tony disappears from his vision, Peter’s chest seizes up. But then he comes back, and it becomes safe again. He’s stripped naked. The chains come off, and the straitjacket. Tony massages his shoulders, his arms and wrists and ankles. He brushes Peter’s teeth for him. Lays him down inside the deep, oval tub and uses the shower head to wash him down, over and over.

Peter fades out while he’s being scrubbed. He wakes up cradled with his back to Tony’s chest, sitting in a tub full of warm water. It’s the warmest he’s felt since being taken to the basement. His head drops back onto his dad’s chest and he moans in pure ecstasy.

A bath sponge glides over Peter’s skin. The spicy soap smells like heaven. Tony rubs the sponge in slow circles over Peter’s chest, then his belly. He strokes it over Peter’s thighs, under the water. His fingers trace behind the sponge, leaving hot trails across the bruises. That hand drifts closer and closer to Peter’s cock. Circles it. Brushes it. Peter’s too tired and sore to feel very aroused, but it’s nice. He likes the way his father teases the underside of his cock with the back of his hand. The way his fingers slide up Peter’s balls and perineum to dip against his hole before he withdraws. Tony takes a handful of liquid soap and smooths it all over Peter’s cock, his thighs. Making him clean. Making him hard. Peter lets out a drowsy moan.

_ “Good boy,” _ Tony whispers.  _ “Just relax. Let Daddy do the work.” _

“Mmhmm,” Peter hums. He sinks even more bonelessly into Tony’s chest and just lets his dad touch him. That big hand engulfs his cock and starts tugging him in long, purposeful strokes.

Dizzying heat floods Peter’s chest. It’s too hot in the room. The water’s too hot, suddenly, and he squirms upward.

Tony puts an arm around his middle and lifts him until Peter’s sitting fully on his lap. It brings him out of the water enough that his skin cools down. That hand keeps stroking him, and now it’s really starting to feel good. Peter holds both sides of the tub (so good, so amazing to touch things again) and leans back. Feels his father’s breath, the scratchy beard and soft lips against his skin while he milks Peter’s cock. 

“Cum whenever you want to, Peter,” Tony murmurs against his shoulder.

It’s not long, after that. His father’s skillful hand overpowers the exhaustion and aches. Being touched at all is incredibly stimulating, and being touched like  _ this _ is divine. Peter gasps in a few short breaths, then lets it all out in a wavering moan as his cock begins to pulse.

Tony lifts some of the cum out of the water, pinched between two fingers and thumb. He tilts Peter’s head to the side. Rubs it into his neck, then sucks it off his skin. He gnaws on the spot until Peter makes a sound of pain, then sits back, relaxed like a giant cat, with one arm around Peter’s waist. Peter melts back against him, head tilted against his cheek. They’re both silent for a long time.

“Dad?” Peter’s voice is soft. He doesn’t want to break this moment.

“Mmm?”

“Could you give me some water?”

Tony chuckles.

“Sure, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::holds out tin cup:: Comments? Comments for the poor? [in a creaky old voice]
> 
> Question my sanity here or on [tumblr](http://subverbaldreams.tumblr.com/fics), [newtumbl](http://subverbaldreams.newtumbl.com/) (my repository for gay sexy pics and videos), or [twitter](http://twitter.com/SubverbalD).


	6. Bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck puts Peter to bed  
Tony makes a public announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those waiting just for the rescue: I got you, frens—I’ll put it in the title & chapter summary.

He truly is the perfect boy.

After his bath, Peter is more docile than he’s ever been. He lets Quentin dress him for bed, moves obediently where Quentin guides him, and is a well-behaved little angel...right until they come to the door of the bedroom. There Peter stops, shrinking into Quentin’s side as if for protection.

“What is it?” The question, of course, is for Peter’s benefit. Quentin knows exactly why the boy hesitates.

Peter whimpers something unintelligible. Quentin steps in front of him and cradles his face, tilting it upward so they are eye to eye.

“Use your words, Petey. Why are you being disobedient again?”

Peter’s eyes widen and fill with tears that spill down his cheeks in reaction to Quentin calling out his behavior. His lips tremble silently, as though tasting various words and finding them all inadequate. 

”Can’t go under there again,” he whimpers, his words trailing into silence but for the movement of his mouth. He lowers his eyes, for all the world looking like a whipped puppy. 

“Baby, you know I love you,” Quentin says, petting Peter’s hair away from his forehead. “Everything I do is for your own good. Daddy would never let anything bad happen to his baby boy. Do you know that?”

He watches for anger, defiance, but there is only defeat. Peter sniffs and nods, his shoulders slumping. 

Quentin puts a hand on the back of his neck and opens the bedroom door. Watches Peter’s brow crease in confusion, then smooth out as he begins to understand.

“Is that mine, sir?” His voice is soft, as if just speaking it might make it untrue. Quentin massages the back of Peter’s neck, raw where the collar of the straitjacket had chafed him, and follows Peter’s gaze to the twin bed, with its wrist and ankle manacles, its box springs and neatly tucked sheets, which sits at the foot of the master bed.

“Yep. Your own bed, for being such a good boy for Daddy. As long as you’re good, you can sleep in it.”

Peter’s reaction is beautiful. He lifts his hands to his mouth and sobs. “Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you! Oh god…” His voice trails off into sniffles. 

Quentin leads him to the bed and sits him down. Turns down the covers and guides his ankles into the manacles, which are chained to the bottom of his own sturdy bed. Peter glances at the bars of the underbed beside him; a shadow of terror crosses his pretty features at the reminder of what awaits him if he steps out of line. Quentin hushes him, strokes his cheek and smiles fondly when Peter melts into his hand. 

He cuffs his boy’s wrists together in their own perfectly sized manacles. The metal is heavy, weighted even more by the chain that connects him to the master bed. Peter shifts his wrists, testing their weight, but he doesn’t seem distraught. If anything, he seems peaceful.

“Dad? Will you stay with me a while?”

The phrasing of Peter’s murmured request takes him off guard. Quentin glances down to see Peter watching him, eyes half-lidded like he’s on the verge of sleep. He’s addressing Quentin directly. Looking him right in the face while calling him “Dad”; no question that the title is meant for him alone. Which...is  _ good, _ and yet it’s not quite right. It’s not perfect, and Quentin needs this to be perfect.

“Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it,” Quentin says, putting on a closed, thoughtful expression. 

It’s like changing hand puppets in front of a baby. Peter’s face falls into concern. Eager to know what he’s done to displease Quentin, just like he’d been back when they were first together. Quentin’s heart swells with pride for his boy. They’re making such good progress. 

“When you call me ‘Dad,’ you make it sound like you’re all grown up. Like maybe you don’t want me around, anymore. Is that true, Peter? Should I leave you alone? Let you figure things out for yourself?”

Peter’s eyes widen in horror.  _ “No!! _ No, nonono, I want you here! Please don’t leave! I need you! Please, I need you!” He starts sobbing again: exhausted, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “Please tell me what to do. I want to be good! I’ll be so good, please just tell me what to do and I’ll do it!” His voice chokes off; his arms shake as he raises his chained wrists to clench his hands into Quentin’s shirt. Quentin catches Peter’s grasping hands and holds them to his chest.

“Are you sure? I thought...maybe you wanted more time by yourself.”

Peter shakes his head wildly, eyes so wide the whites show all around. “No, please! I wanna be with you!”

Quentin lets his face soften into a loving smile. “Yeah? Like when you were little? Remember how I’d always protect you and take care of you?”

Peter nods along with his words, and interjects a  _ “Yes, sir!” _ as soon as Quentin gives him an opening.

“Remember what you called me, back then?” Quentin rubs his thumb over Peter’s wet cheek. “Back when I was everything to you?”

The boy hesitates, forehead creased in distress. Quentin can practically hear his exhausted mind fumbling for the right answer.

“Daddy?” Peter murmurs.

Quentin hadn’t expected the effect it would have on him. That Peter had come up with it on his own, that he’d given it freely—it’s like a drug. It lights him up with pleasure until he feels like he must be  _ luminous. _

“Oh, my baby boy,” Quentin breathes. He pulls Peter’s clinging hands from his shirt, shoves them up above Peter’s head and pins them to the bed. He takes Peter’s face in his other hand and holds him in place, forcing eye contact.

_ “Say it again.” _

“Daddy,” Peter whimpers.

Quentin crashes his mouth down on top of Peter’s, swallows his cry and holds his wrists tight. He bites into Peter’s upper lip as he pulls back from the kiss, bites until his boy screams, then eats deeply into his mouth again. He forces himself to pull back at the taste of blood. Peter’s sobs are constricted into a breathy keen as Quentin leaves a trail of bite marks along his throat. He licks a long line down Peter’s sweet body to his soft cock, and sucks the whole thing into his mouth like a treat. He mouths it until it begins to plump on his tongue, sucks it into full hardness and buries his nose in Peter’s balls, taking him down his throat with practiced ease. 

Peter’s desperate whines fill the room with music as Quentin pleasures him. As he reminds his precious son how good it can feel. How good it is to  _ obey. _

Peter’s hands rest in his hair. He moans and gently rocks his hips, but he never tries to take control. He gives it all to his Daddy like a good boy should, until finally his legs draw up, his lower belly trembles, and he gasps,

“I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum!” 

Quentin begins to pull back, ready to string him out longer, until the breathless cry fills his ears: 

_ “Oh, Daddy!!” _

The pleasure hits Quentin so hard, his eyes roll back. He plunges down on his baby’s erection and sucks it until Peter’s moans hit their peak and tart cream gushes onto his tongue. He lets it fill his mouth, uses his fist around Peter’s cock to milk out every last drop, then raises up on his hands.

Peter’s eyes are closed in bliss. His mouth is open, lips red and raw with half-circles already purpling into bruises. Quentin lowers to kiss him and feeds the load of cum between his lips. 

Honey-brown eyes pop open in surprise. Peter freezes, just letting the cum slide over his tongue. His eyes lock with Quentin’s. Questioning. Maybe even afraid. Quentin is his first, and they’ve never done this before. It’s possible that the boy has never even  _ considered _ this before. But when Quentin glides his tongue over Peter’s, the boy melts. And when Quentin rubs a cupped hand over Peter’s bruised throat, he swallows.

He swallows every drop.

Quentin pulls back, arms braced on the bed, and just admires what he sees there. Peter is the picture of a ruined angel, lying sweaty against the pillow, adorned with bruises in various states of healing, and with cum glistening on his swollen lips. Quentin pulls the covers over his naked body, tucks them under the wrist manacles so the chain won’t make Peter cold. Once he’s all tucked in, Quentin sits on the bed and lets Peter hold his hand between his two cuffed ones. 

It’s not long before Peter’s breathing evens out, and his death-grip on Quentin’s hand goes lax. Quentin gets up slowly, strokes Peter’s hair back from his forehead and kisses him. The boy doesn’t so much as twitch. 

“Love you, baby,” he breathes against Peter’s cheek, then kisses his mouth one last time. His lips tastes of blood. Quentin licks them clean, then turns off the light. He goes out to the living room, leaving Peter alone at last.

Alone, except for the motion sensor and the night-optimized video camera trained on his bed.

He won’t let Peter hurt himself again. A good father attends to his boy’s needs. 

If Tony had done the same, he would still have a son.

***

Every day, Quentin checks the news. Every day, he finds some story about Tony-Fucking-Stark and his “tragic loss.” But today is the first time that King Douchebag himself takes the stage instead of letting his meat puppets do the talking.

His appearance is impeccable, from his perfectly styled hair to his perfectly absurd Nike-swoosh beard. Sunglasses hide his eyes, as they often do, but he doesn’t look distressed at all. And that is...disappointing. It should have been impossible for Quentin’s email to get intercepted or lost, but what if it had? This is not the face of a man who watched his son be gang raped just a couple of weeks ago. This is the face of a shark. Tony turns those razor eyes toward a question from the press.

“Stark Industries is doing perfectly well,” he snaps. “Which camera am I on?” He looks around a moment, then snaps his fingers and points at the one currently broadcasting on Quentin’s TV.

“Hello there. I’m just here to say one thing.”

He takes off the sunglasses and glares into the camera. 

“I see you. I know where you are, and I’m coming for you.”

The cameraman takes his cue and zooms in on Tony’s face. Even up close, Quentin can’t find a sign of grief. Tony-Fucking-Stark looks cold and impersonal. 

“Let me make this clear,” he says slowly. “I want to see my son again. I will do whatever it takes to see him alive and well. What  _ ever  _ it takes.”

The sunglasses glide back onto his face in a motion so smooth, he’s surely practiced it in front of the mirror. He waves off the rabid reporters, and his security escorts him away from the pack. He leaves them all milling and babbling.

He leaves Quentin  _ boiling. _

He doesn’t even care. Doesn’t  _ care _ what’s happening to his son, only that he’s lost a  _ thing, _ a little piece of his garbage empire, and he wants to save face. 

If Tony doesn’t care about his son being tortured...maybe Quentin’s been going about this the wrong way. All he cares about is his pride. All he cares about is losing another trophy.

His trophy son.

A smile twitches at the corner of Quentin’s mouth as the idea takes shape. 

***

Peter doesn’t know how long he’s been in the dark, alone, before the light flicks on. He tries to raise his hands to shield his eyes, but they’re tied down. 

That’s when he realizes where he is.

He squints his eyes open to bare concrete walls. A video camera glares down at him, impersonal. It doesn’t care, but it sees. 

It sees everything.

Peter’s heart does a somersault and tries to come up his throat.  _ He isn’t alone. _ There’s a man somewhere close behind him: the shift of clothes, the scuff of shoes. The  _ sense _ of another life, and then hands—big hands, a grip like steel around Peter’s hips, no prep at all as his ass is jerked into the air and the man’s cock starts pushing at his hole. Peter tries to tell him to stop. He tries. But his mouth is frozen. His lungs won’t work. He’s stiff as a doll while the man rams into him, pain like a knife wound and he can’t even scream. 

_ “Where’s Tony now?”  _ asks a mocking, demonic voice. It’s familiar, but he doesn’t know why. A nightmare he’s had before. The sound of it shivers right down through his core. He struggles against the paralysis like a butterfly battering itself to death inside a glass jar, as one man finishes and another climbs on top of him, but he never moves a muscle. Unable to fight or flee, Peter strains to call for help, but no matter how hard he tries, his tongue won’t move. The demon-voice laughs, a sound like sludgy static.

_ “If you were a better son, maybe he’d save you.” _

***

Quentin is in his office, working on a new video editing program, when he hears the cry from the bedroom. He’s already reaching for his phone when it dings an alert: the motion sensor has been tripped. He opens the screen to see a black-and-white Peter jerking in bed, the covers all kicked to the side.

_ Nightmares.  _ Quentin watches his boy thrash for a minute, savoring the affection that warms his chest. His sweet boy hasn’t slept well without drugs for a long time.

Quentin sighs at last, locks the phone and saves his work on the computer. 

His son needs him.

***

The paralysis breaks just as one man climbs off and another takes hold of him. Peter gasps and rolls away, hits something cold and metal, and tries to shove an elbow back into his attacker. It’s stopped halfway by the manacles around his wrists.

_ “DAD!!!! DAAAAD!!!”  _ He screams at the top of his lungs, ignores the lightning bolts that jag through his head when he screams, and tries to kick the man away from him. His foot connects with something and the man lets go of him, his weight lifting off the bed. Peter thrashes at his bonds. He throws his entire body backwards, trying to jerk the chains free. The mattress disappears from underneath him and he falls a few inches before the manacles stop him short, so that he’s dangling from his wrists and ankles with his side against the mattress.

Light fills the room. Peter squints his eyes shut. He tries to call for Tony again, but his heart is battering so hard against his eardrums he isn’t sure any sound actually comes out. Strong hands pick him up and push him back onto the bed. Peter grabs the chain attached to his wrists and jerks himself away from those hands. He rolls onto his back, curling his legs up to kick the attacker away.

And stops.

Mr. Beck is bending over him.

_ Mr. Beck. _

Peter’s heart dives through the floor. The room shatters around him, any semblance of reason flying away from his grasp. It’s like he’s falling down a deep tunnel. Nothing to grab hold of. Nothing to stop his fall. His teeth are chattering and he’s shivering all over; shaking and shaking and he can’t stop, can’t catch hold of the simplest thought.

He loses track of things, for a while. 

When he comes back to himself, he’s weighted down with blankets that have forced his breathing to slow down. His wrists and ankles are throbbing. Peter tries to lift his hand to look at his wrist, but his arm won’t come up. There’s something holding him down. He tries to jerk into a sitting position, only to realize he’s being held to the bed at chest and belly with straps like horizontal seatbelts. Peter opens his mouth to cry for help, but only a low whine comes out.

“Are you back with me, baby?”

Peter’s heart dives in his chest. That voice...there’s something about that voice, but he can’t catch hold of it.

“Petey, it’s okay. It’s safe. You’re here with me, nothing can hurt you.”

A hot palm strokes over Peter’s forehead. And a smell...he knows that smell. 

It’s his father’s cologne.

_ It’s his father! _

A choked moan drags itself out of his throat. Pure relief. His father’s taking care of him. He’s safe. That hand keeps stroking him and Peter keeps shivering, but he’s crying, too, all the terror spilling from the corners of his eyes to wet the mattress on either side of his head.

“Sweet baby, it’s alright. It’s alright. Daddy’s got you.”

Peter hiccups through sobs. “Lemme up,” he gasps, writhing against the straps that are holding him down. “Please, please. Oh god.”

“Are you back with me, this time?” Tony asks. He tilts Peter’s face toward him. Peter blinks his eyes open, sees his dad’s concerned frown and remembers how he’d thrashed and fought. How he’d fallen off the bed. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Please. I’m back, please Dad, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—” Peter’s teeth start chattering as he tries to explain, which causes little pain-bombs to explode through his skull. He can’t be tied down. He  _ can’t do it. _ But the words won’t come; even thinking about it enough to explain it is making him frantic.

Somehow, his dad just  _ knows.  _ He pushes the blankets to one side; Velcro skrawks loudly as he undoes the straps that hold Peter to the mattress. He gathers Peter up in his arms (sore, he’s so sore and weak all over) and just holds him there, scratchy beard against his temple with Peter’s face tucked under his chin.

“I’m right here, baby. I was so worried about you.”

Peter can’t speak. He’s too wrapped up in breathing his father’s scent. Breathing it right down into his lungs, letting it spread through his body like a calming drug. As long as he’s in Tony Stark’s arms, the nightmares can’t get him. 

“I’ve got you.” His father’s chest rumbles softly with his words. Peter roots into him, squirming up into his lap. He’s too big now to really hide in his father’s body, but it’s enough. Strong arms wrap around him to hold him tight, and he clings in turn to Tony, face buried in his neck so he doesn’t have to take a single breath without his scent. He can’t bear to be away from his father anymore. Not for a second. 

“I love you, Dad,” Peter blurts. “—Daddy,” he corrects himself, remembering that Tony wants to be called “Daddy,” now. It feels strange, but it doesn’t matter. Peter will do anything to keep his dad close. “I love you. Don’t leave me,” he begs, as strong fingers thread through his hair and scratch his scalp.

“Baby, I’ll never leave you,” Tony murmurs. He turns to kiss the top of Peter’s head, then goes back to rubbing his back in slow circles. “I’m right here forever. You’re safe, Petey.”

_ Safe.  _ He’s safe. The men can’t get him.

Shivers keep draining like water through his body. Peter melts into his father. He surrenders to the trembling and crying. He can’t fight anymore. 

“Shh, it’s alright, kiddo. Daddy’s got you.”

Peter nods. He knows, but he doesn’t want his dad to stop saying it.

Obligingly, Tony tells him over and over.

“Daddy’s got you, Petey. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consume comments like sugar sticks: first I run around the house like a hyperactive puppy, then crash in withdrawal followed by cravings that force me to write another chapter.


	7. Daddy’s Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _unreliable narrator_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I survived all the unholy hell that exploded in my life last year and I’m BACK. Let’s continue the derailment of this beautiful train wreck. Thank you to PeterParker7EvilExes for the beta!

Peter is in heaven.

He’s sore, yes. Everything hurts. But his father has lavished him with attention ever since he woke up. They’re always touching—always. After a gentle massage that loosens the kinks in his joints, Tony cradles him in his lap on the living room couch and feeds him from his fingertips, not allowing Peter to use his hands at all. Peter’s stiff, at first. Uncertain. But with his father’s constant praise and gentle petting, the knot in his stomach eases and he realizes:

He’s never felt so loved.

The more he eats, the more Tony’s fingertips linger inside his mouth. The more eagerly he sucks the morsels from his father’s fingers, the more petting and praise he receives. He can’t even feel embarrassed about this. How could he? It’s his dad, and his dad has seen him in all kinds of undignified situations. Besides, with the way his head is still throbbing and the way the room spins every few breaths, Peter is grateful for the help. He isn’t sure he could hold himself up long enough to eat alone.

“You’re such a good boy, Petey.” Tony’s husky whisper tickles against the back of Peter’s ear, followed by scratchy kisses and a small bite that makes him yelp around his father’s index finger and thumb. Those fingers trace his tongue, his teeth, and Peter fights not to squirm. He isn’t sure if it’s okay to feel horny from this, and the last thing he wants is to make his dad feel weird. 

Peter sucks the juice off his father’s fingers and gnaws on them gently, flicking his tongue into the crease between them to catch a hanging drop. Tony takes in a harsh breath. Lets it out in a shaky chuckle.

“Baby,” he purrs. “Don’t get Daddy too excited. You need to rest up for a bit.”

The gentle chastisement turns Peter’s face hot.

“Sorry, sir,” he says quickly, but Tony hushes him.

“I’m teasing you, kiddo. You thirsty?”

It’s not that he mishears, but what Peter interprets from the question is, _ Do you want me to kiss you? _

“Yes! Please!”

The answer comes out ridiculously eager, but Tony just chuckles and picks up his glass. Not the water glass; this time it’s wine. He fills his mouth, then pulls Peter in to lock their lips together and feed it to him. It’s sweet, and tart, and not bad at all, especially when it’s followed by his dad’s exploring tongue and the scrape of his beard. They repeat the process until Peter’s face is filled with a nuclear heat and his cock is rigid against his belly. He tucks his arms inward to hide his erection, but his father notices and lays a hand on Peter’s arm.

“What’s wrong, Petey?”

Oh, god. There’s no getting out of this, now. Peter ducks his head, but Tony just puts a finger under his chin and lifts it back up again. His cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

“Peter?” His name comes out slower, this time. Measured. Not angry, yet, but Peter’s chest fills with a burning urgency to answer before he gets punished.

“I’m sorry, sir! I don’t know why it’s happening—oh my god. I can’t help it!”

Tony wets his lips, and Peter dares a glance at him. He’s frowning, eyes thoughtful.

“Baby...are you embarrassed because you have an erection?”

Well. If he was embarrassed before, he’s _ mortified _ now. Peter can hardly hear himself through the rush of blood in his ears.

“I-just—I don’t want to make you feel weird. Or, make this...like, uncomfortable.” Peter swallows hard. Has he always had this much trouble stringing a sentence together? How has his father ever put up with him? Tony Stark, who is always in power? Always in control? Peter’s need has become an endless spiral that leads him back to his father in a möbius loop. 

_ Always you. _

The thought is almost a prayer.

_ It’s always been you. _

Tony cups his cheek, and his skin feels blissfully cool. Peter leans into the touch like a magnet to its opposite, blooms inside when he’s rewarded with a gentle stroke.

“Why,” his dad says, and there’s a curious laugh behind his voice, “would I _ ever _ be uncomfortable that you got hard for me?”

“Dunno,” Peter mumbles. It makes perfect sense in his head; why can’t he explain it? “Cuz I’m your son,” he says at last. Shame coils in his gut with the memory of his dad jerking him off in the bathtub. His dad had done that for him, to make him feel better. Does he feel weird about it, now? Does he think Peter is a freak for enjoying it so much?

_ But we had sex. Didn’t we? Or did I dream it? _

Peter is so wrapped up in trying to shove together the fragments of his memories, he doesn’t see the change come over his dad’s face until the man speaks up.

“Because you’re my son,” Tony repeats. His voice is all hazy edges and rolling warmth. Peter focuses in on him (a disorienting second when his face fuzzes out, but Peter blinks and it comes back into focus, perfect as ever) and realizes Tony is grinning ear to ear, a bright beam of joy like Peter had just done something wonderful. Tony laughs, a deep chuckle that vibrates through Peter’s chest.

“Peter,” he laughs. “Oh, my little baby boy. You are so...so _ pure. _ So perfect for me.” He nuzzles into Peter’s neck and sucks at the skin, bites lovingly along the column of Peter’s throat until Peter is squirming in his lap. Between the throbbing of his body and the heat of his cock, he’s a complete mess. Peter tries to stay quiet, to hold in the needy, eager whines that keep trying to burst out of his throat. Tony grabs him tight and lays a hard bite into his shoulder muscle, then licks the indents his teeth have left behind. 

“My innocent baby angel,” he whispers. He leans back and takes Peter’s cheek in hand, tilts him so they’re making the most intense eye contact Peter’s ever had in his life. “You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you, Pete. Ab-so-lute-ly _ ANYthing.” _He strings out the last two words in a singsong. His eyes are half-lidded and dark. Peter almost wants to recoil; it feels more like a threat than an endearment. But he suppresses the feeling and nods agreement.

“Yes,” Tony murmurs. “Yes, good boy. Daddy loves you, Pete. Daddy would _ kill _for you. Kill anyone who tried to take you away from me.”

An icicle of fear corkscrews through Peter’s chest, down into his belly. But then his father’s hand is on the back of his neck, pulling him in, and there’s no water this time as their mouths crash together. The kiss hurts. Peter’s head is still tender, and he doesn’t feel well. But there’s so much passion behind it—so much _ love _ —that he holds in the cries of pain and lets his father do what he wants. Tony’s tongue delves into the back of his mouth, into his _ throat _ until he chokes. He bites Peter’s lips and sucks on his tongue, and his hands are crushing as they grip Peter’s head in place. 

They’re both gasping when Tony bursts away from him. Peter’s lips hurt, _ bad, _ but the expression on his dad’s face wipes the pain away like an eraser. Hot like magma, intense like nothing else exists in the entire world except Peter.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” Tony murmurs. “All mine.”

_ “Yes, sir!” _ The words fly from Peter’s mouth before he quite knows he’s going to say them. 

“Mmm,” Tony hums. He strokes up Peter’s chest and pinches his left nipple, fingers tightening until Peter whimpers. “Good, but not good enough. Try again.”

“Yes, Daddy!” Peter gasps through the pain. _ “YES, DADDY I’M YOURS!” _

The fingers clamp harder for a heartbeat, then release and Tony rubs his raw nipple with the pad of his thumb.

“Good boy.” He lays a peck against the swollen corner of Peter’s mouth, then gathers Peter back into his chest.

Peter lays his head against his father’s shoulder. His heart is hammering and he’s nauseated. Something feels badly off-center. Something important. 

He stuffs that feeling into the farthest corner of his mind he possibly can, and focuses instead on the incredible sensation of his father’s hands stroking his arm and his thigh. On the warm breath against his bare skin. On his father’s heartbeat.

Nothing is wrong. This is good. This is _ right. _ He has to believe that. Everything will make sense. Later. When he’s not sick. 

Right now, he just needs his Daddy.

  
  


***

It’s been thirty-one days, eleven hours, five minutes since Tony received the video of Peter being gang-raped. He knows this because JARVIS keeps a counter for him on every screen of every device he owns. A reminder of each minute his son has waited since screaming for Tony to save him.

Tony is pretty sure that Stark Industries is still functioning. He signed majority ownership and direct control over to Pepper the day after he’d received that video. Thirty-one days, eleven hours, and no further contact from the kidnappers.

No one else has seen the video but him. After all, what would the police be able to do? What could their forensics team do that he couldn’t? Which, as it turns out, is nothing. The stream had been so well encrypted, not even the great Tony Stark could trace it.

He hasn’t been idle in the last month. Far from it. While he was handing his business affairs over to Pepper, Tony quietly purchased a new building and transferred over everything he would need to start his new solo venture to locate and retrieve his son. He can’t exist in the same space as Peter’s old room. Can’t function, living alone in the home they shared for 16 years. That life is over.

Tony has made connections to a whole new world. He’s flown across the country, across _ continents, _ to speak to people whose predatory, dead eyes come back to him in his nightmares, chasing any trail that could lead him to Peter. He’s currently following two leads: a human trafficking ring based out of Houston, and a Russian retrieval specialist who calls himself “Winter.” He doesn’t expect anything to come from either connection besides more nightmare fuel. 

Peter’s face is plastered on every billboard, pop-up ad, and news station. Everyone in the world knows the face of Peter Stark by now. Everyone knows about the 2 billion dollar reward. And yet Peter is still missing.

Peter can’t be dead. That isn’t an option. So Tony does what he knows how to do.

He works.

He’s hit his stride. He forces himself out of bed each morning for an hour of mixed martial arts. It’s the only exercise he can stand at the moment. Natasha, his trainer, is small but brutal. She gives him all the license he needs to enact the violence that’s been festering inside him since he first received that video of his son. Unlike the lickspittles from his old life, she isn’t the least bit phased by it. She’s taught him how to kill a man twenty different ways and counting.

After the session he catches up on messages and calls to whatever contacts he has at the moment, followed by a half hour of indoor shooting practice. All his targets wear ski masks. He can unerringly nail them at 50 yards. The mindless task of shooting eases his nerves and gives him the mental space he needs to plan the rest of his day.

His family’s onetime trade in military contracts serves him well now. Their surveillance equipment is outdated, but it’s given him a jumping-off point. After coding a few updates to old software, Tony has methodically hacked every single traffic cam and online surveillance system in the city, reconfigured a suspect tracking program to scan past footage for Peter’s face, and has been sifting through the false positives for the last week. His current project is a program that can scan footage in real-time. Not just within the city, but across the state. He’s purchased an entire warehouse of server space so that he can cast his net farther. Across the country. Across _ any _ country with an internet connection. That’s the goal.

He’s going to hack the entire fucking world.

He can’t sleep for more than ten minutes at a time without at least two tumblers of scotch and a couple Valium. Each night, while he’s waiting for the drugs to kick in, he watches JARVIS’ counter tick away and plans his next steps. 

Each night, once the pills kick in but before he can sleep, he replays the video.

Watching it used to be torture. Now, it’s a panacea. It’s the only recent video he has of Peter, other than bland security camera footage. He studies the lines of Peter’s body. The way his voice arcs over every scream. He traces the welts on Peter’s skin. And when Peter begs for him, he always answers.

“I’m right here, baby. Daddy’s got you.”

It’s their bedtime ritual. Many nights, he falls asleep to his son’s screams.

***

Tony’s dreams have morphed into a half-waking state in which he’s already started to plan the day, when JARVIS’ soothing voice pipes from overhead.

“Good morning, sir. Pepper Potts and Captain Rogers are here to see you.” Tony opens his mouth to remind his AI of his standing no-visitors protocol, but the voice continues: “The Captain has obtained a warrant to perform a welfare check on you, sir.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, hard, then flares them wide open. 

“Wow,” he mumbles. Only fucking Steve Rogers would have the combination of pigheadedness and balls to pull a stunt like this.

Without hurrying, Tony puts his appearance in order, puts on his sunglasses, and takes the elevator down to meet his former associates. Using the tactile interface on his watch, he scrolls through emails which are projected onto the inside of his lenses.

“Winter” has gotten back to him. The email contains nothing but a phone number; he’ll call it after his morning training session. Otherwise, it’s all garbage except for one possible sighting of Peter which he routes to JARVIS for verification.

Out of the elevator, Tony has to walk halfway across the building through narrow hallways until he sees Pepper and Steve standing in the building’s small entryway. The high rise has no proper waiting area and the first floor is desolate; Tony didn’t buy it with the intention of ever having guests or business. 

Tony holds his hands out to either side, displaying himself.

“Here I am. Alive and well. Are we done here?”

“Tony,” Pepper says, her voice careful. It reminds Tony of Stark Tower, where he’d had to field the constant tiptoeing and fearful scurrying of his staff, and only makes him more glad that he got away from all that interference.

Steve locks eyes with Tony’s sunglasses. He looks sorrowful, his big, stupid puppy-dog face pulled long by concern.

“I left you messages,” Steve says.

“Eighty-eight of them,” Tony says. 

“Did you listen to them?” Steve asks.

“Been busy,” Tony says. JARVIS had, in fact, transcribed every message for him to look over, just in case there had been news about Peter, but there had not been. Not a word of Steve’s 88 messages had been worth the breath it took to make. “I’ve got a lot to do, today—”

“Like what?” This comes from Pepper.

“Like none of your business,” Tony says without heat. For heat, there would have to be some kind of emotion. There is none. Where Pepper used to sit in his heart, there’s just cold space. “I already _ gave _ you my business. Remember? So, in literally every sense, I can say this to you: that’s _ all _ of my business you’re getting.” He frames the last words with a finger from each hand pointed in the air.

“Tony,” Steve says, undeterred, “No one has seen or heard from you in over a month, except for that _ one _ press conference.” His sky-blue eyes practically drip with earnestness. “You can’t be alone through this. It’s the worst nightmare a parent can go through and you’ve cut yourself off from all of your friends.”

“So you abused the legal system to come and see me,” Tony muses. He nods, then cocks his head, as if thinking about it. “That seems rational. You’re in for a commendation, Captain.”

Steve’s chin lifts defensively, but Pepper is the one who responds.

“Tony,” she says, and there’s something in her voice. Something not right, or maybe it’s reflecting that _ he _is not right. “Please don’t try to do this alone.”

“I’ve been working on Peter’s case every night,” Steve adds. His voice goes rough, exhaustion peeking through the concerned-friend facade. “I kept you updated in those messages—”

“You found nothing.” Tony’s statement hits the air flat. To be angry at these two, he would have to care. And he just...doesn’t. His previous break wasn’t clean enough for them, clearly. If he’s going to get them out of his way he needs to shatter this relationship at the very foundation.

Tony aims a cool look at Pepper. “You assume I’m alone. I am not. I just don’t want to see you two. Not now, preferably not ever.” He looks Steve up and down, and sniffs. “Maybe I was unclear before, but I have dumped you. We are through. Which makes this?” He draws a circle in the air to indicate all three of them, “...tantamount to stalking. Come at me again and you’ll find out just how much hell I can rain down on someone who tries to fuck with me. And Potts?”

Pepper looks like she’s tasted something vaguely bitter. 

“We were never friends. I have always cared about you to exactly the extent that you are useful to Stark Industries, which,” he gestures at her finely tailored power suit, “you clearly have in hand.”

A new email pops up in the corner of his glasses. Its title is a single word.

_ Peter. _

Tony’s mouth goes dry and he forgets the cutting remark he’d lined up next. Pepper and Steve take on the gray hues of ghosts as Tony’s gaze turns inward. The email is from _ them. _He knows it in his gut. He needs to get back upstairs right away. He needs a bigger screen.

“Tony,” Steve says, and there’s no anger in his voice, just sorrow. “I know what you’re doing. Please don’t do this.”

But Tony has already spun on his heel. He taps out a command on his watch so that his room can be ready as soon as he gets back to it, and another to let Natasha know that he might not make it to training.

“Either arrest me and face a lawsuit that will cripple your department, or fuck right off,” Tony says without turning around. “You two aren’t welcome here. Get out.”


End file.
